The Night Watch
by ScribeofHeroes
Summary: Batman guards the least protected citizens of Gotham City. They later return the favor.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own Batman/Bruce Wayne, Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, or Gotham City . However, this particular neighborhood in Gotham City and the other characters in this chapter are my creations.**

Bruce Wayne, six year-old amateur detective snuck through the garden. His eyes scanned the shrubbery. The detective always found the clue in places like this. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the grass and dirt.

Then he found it, something he had to show his mom and dad! He scooped it up and rushed in a side door, through the halls, down the steps, and up to the study door. He threw it open.

"Mom! Dad!"

His parents were there. They had their arms around each other. The buttons of his mother's blouse were undone. The garment was slipping from her shoulders.

At the sight of her son, Martha's face turned redder than her hair. Thomas swept his wife behind him turning around himself as he did so. Then Dr. Wayne looked over his shoulder.

"Do you need something, son?"

"I wanted to show you what I found in the garden."

His mom's petite frame could not be seen behind her husband's taller and broader form, but her voice came from behind it.

"Why don't you go show Alfred, dear? We'll be out to see it soon."

His father turned his head further around without moving any of the rest of him.

"And close the door behind you, will you Bruce? Your mother and I are trying to discuss something very boring, and we don't want to bother you with it."

Martha chuckled.

Bruce went out and slammed the door shut. Boring indeed! He knew his parent's were doing something exciting and hiding it. He'd gone back outside, sat down on the stone steps, and sulked at the fact they were having fun without him. They never even asked to see what he had found when they finally came out.

. . .

Almost twenty years later, Bruce Wayne, adult vigilante, guarded Gotham City's "Red Light district" from atop its tallest apartment building. There he observed what transpired on the streets and fire-escapes below.

The highest murder rate in the entire, gang-ruled city was right here. Most took place between three and six A.M. when the women left the clubs and returned to their apartments. So, he made the neighborhood his last stop before sunrise.

A woman stepped out of her apartment and onto the fire escape. She was wearing a negligée almost as bright a shade of red as her lips. Seconds later a tendril of smoke rose into the night air along with the scent of burning tobacco.

A man wandered the street beneath the woman. She called out to him. The light behind her haloed her hair and outlined her curves. If she was as attractive as she seemed just then, it must have been her night off at the club. More likely she had grown too old and wrinkled for the clubs men entered sober looking for the best. She now caught her customers attention after they had left the best behind and no longer perceived things clearly. She likely kept her room dimly lit and got paid up front.

The man entered the building after she told him her apartment number. The woman went back inside. Batman wondered if he would think her worth the money he'd paid, afterward. He turned his gaze away.

_They're a microcosm of Gotham. Dressed and made-up to hide the poverty and despair underneath. Trying to gain money and attention from the blatantly or secretly corrupt, in order to appear unmindful of looks and words from more 'decent' folk. _

Here the women wanted money. The men wanted a pleasant experience with a half way decent looking companion. The women who chased Bruce Wayne wanted both. But they wasted their time, he was already married.

The old, broken, faded lady of poor repute known as Gotham City was the true woman of his life. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death did they part he had committed himself to her. The vow had not been mutual. Still, he would entertain no rivals for his devotion to her, until she needed him no more. It was far more likely he'd die in her service first.

He swept his gaze over the surrounding area watching blurs of movement and listening for raised voices. Not every visitor paid for what they came here for. Victims of these thefts sometimes lived through it. Other times they did not. Few cases were investigated longer than a week.

Bruce wondered how differently history would have had to play out, for those victims to have become teachers, athletes, writers, reporters, chefs, doctors, police officers, diplomats, and wives. What had been the deciding factor that brought them here instead of offices or closets they could hide in with their husbands from inquisitive children? How many dreams of such things had died here? How many children never born, or never known or cared about, by their father's? How many, how much, had really died here? A body count didn't reveal everything.

Through his night vision binoculars, he saw a woman leaving a club. She entered an alley. Mascara-crusted lashes lowered as the woman looked down at the ground before her feet. Her steps were long, but heavy. She was keeping her head bowed. Batman lowered his binoculars to study the woman's surroundings.

A car, parked a little ways off, came to life like a stalking beast. It pulled around and drove in the direction the woman had headed. It could be a coincidence, but . . . .

He started heading in that direction. As he got closer, he heard shouts. The Batman raced along the rooftops to the aid of a Gothamite he'd sworn to protect and honor, though she never heard him say it, or likely believed any man ever would.

. . .

The woman turned the corner and got a few feet before the fastest man grabbed her. In the ensuing struggle he tore off her jacket and shirt.

The other four men caught up. They stopped behind their companion and laughed. The first man threw her into the arms of another who used a knife to cut through the strap of her bra. That man then shoved her to the ground.

The third man approached her. His grin widened as he took a few more steps toward his prey. His right hand held a knife.

A soft whirring sound cut through the air. A clang echoed through the alley. The man gripped his right hand with his left, clenched his teeth, and said a foul word. Then he peeled his left hand away.

A straight, floss-thin cut ran across the back of his hand. He looked up. A black, razor edged piece of metal was sticking out of the wall in front of him. The other men gasped behind him.

He turned. A black-garbed form planted its feet in his gut. The force sent him sprawling into a pile of garbage bags. The figure straightened and growled down at him.

"Leave."

One of the men lifted a gun. Another batarang flashed through the darkness. The weapon dropped into a pile of litter.

The two others rushed The Dark Knight. Pressing both hands together, Batman drove them upwards into the jaw of the first man to reach him. He ducked under the punch of the next man, grabbed his arm and flipped him over his back, tossing him on top of the first man. The vigilante glared at them both.

"I said, _'__leave.'_"

After getting to their feet, all five men did. The Dark Knight listened until every set of running steps had faded away. Then he studied the victim.

The woman had crawled into a corner formed by the brick wall and a dumpster. There she'd drawn herself up into the fetal position. Her chest was hidden behind her legs. Her forehead rested on her knees. Loose, dirty hair fell over her face and form. She was rigid. No sobs racked her body or disturbed the silence.

Batman looked away to study the clothes strewn on the ground. They would no longer stay on, let alone cover her. He walked toward the woman. She didn't flee, speak, or even look up. He stopped when he came within a few feet of her.

. . .

The heavy footsteps stopped. She tightened her grip around herself and waited. Nothing happened. That was somehow more frightening than what she expected to hear. It didn't feel as if the presence was either approaching or retreating. The woman half-opened one of her eyes.

A long, black cloth hung in the air about a foot from her face. She looked up. A hand sheathed in a glove was holding it out.

Both eyes snapped open. She leaned backwards and looked up. The rest of the individual attached to the hand was the strangest person she'd ever seen. And she had seen quite a few strange people.

He stood over her, rather than crouched over her like a monster ready to spring. He looked more like a doorman. Instead of holding a door open for her though, he was holding out his cape.

Her gaze darted from the cape to his face and back again. Then her hand shot out and snatched it from him. She wrapped herself in it. Thrown over and around her shoulders, it hung down to her feet. Once hidden behind it, she stood up and looked him in the face.

"What are you?"

"The night-watch."

She blinked. Then her face twisted into a sneer. Laughter bubbled up from her mouth for two minutes. It could have been mistaken for gut-wrenching sobs. After another minute and a half passed before she found enough breath to form words.

"Really? What do you want for your services?"

The expression on his face didn't change. He replied in the same voice he'd used before.

"I volunteered."

Another chuckle sounded through the night. Panic and nervous energy from the attack were finding an outlet in the laughter.

"Volunteered? You just volunteer to dress up like this and wonder around knocking guys on their (censored) who try to 'get some,' for free, from a girl like me?"

"Yes."

The woman's eyes flew open. Her jaw dropped. A glow of stunned wonder washed over her face. For a moment, she could not find her breath, let alone utter a sound. The Batman's own expression, finally, changed.

He flinched, as if a needle had been jabbed into one of his nerves. The woman tilted her head.

"You're serious!"

"I usually am."

The woman continued to not blink. Her mouth remained open.

"Huh!"

She dropped her gaze and stared at nothing. After a moment, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Then she looked back up at him.

"So . . . , how does this work?"

"I should walk you home."

The woman's eyes narrowed. Her body hunched over. She drew into herself. Her expression and posture resembled a harassed cat. Batman thought he could see the old demons of cynicism and anger rushing back into her soul in droves. Her voice became a strangled growl, but there was also a note of triumph in it_._

"Oh. And what happens when we get there?"

Without stepping back, Batman shifted his weight to give the victim more personal space. Her reactions were primal instinct. He needed to behave as if he was rescuing something trapped, terrified, and wild. In that situation you guided them toward freedom. Encourage them here and discourage them there. Let them find their own way out.

He moved his eyes from a direct gaze into hers, to just slightly above them, neither making full eye contact, nor looking at anything below her eyes, but not seeming to ignore her either. His tone was not exactly humble, but it was low and measured, the voice of professional cordiality between equals. The tone a police officer has when he pulls up to your car parked on the shoulder of the highway, and asks if you require assistance.

"I'd appreciate it, if once you get back to your apartment, you put something else on and give me back my cape. If you throw it out a window, I'll have no need to follow you inside the building. All I need to know is what side of the structure your apartment window is on."

An eyebrow rose. The bitterness and anger fell away again. The glow came back in full force. Her voice was softer, yet still had a shrillness from held back tears and clinging doubt.

"That's it?"

He nodded.

"That's it."

The woman appeared to wake up from a dream. She remembered she'd had a goal in mind before the whole event occurred. There was no reason to just stand where she was any longer.

"Oh. I guess I'll lead the way then."

They stepped into the darkness. Batman could have run along the rooftops, keeping up with and keeping an eye on her from above. Instead, he walked beside her, matching his steps with hers. They walked a few feet apart like acquaintances discussing the show they'd just seen together both bored to tears with the subject. The circumstance could not have been more different.

He kept his distance out of respect. She gave him space, because she felt separated from him somehow. Not simply because she did not know him. She was used to approaching men she didn't know. But he felt like a different kind of man than the ones she was used to.

Somehow, he _still_ seemed to fit into this world, her world, the realm of far too many like herself. It was as if the cries of all the women who'd ever lived there had distilled into a dark guardian, more phantom than flesh. She felt like you could say or do something to break the spell and make him vanish.

His demeanor fit their surroundings' ambiance of despair. Yet, she also sensed he couldn't exist in this world without changing it. She felt a little in awe of him. She wanted to view all of him at once, the way one steps back to look at a piece of art.

The fabric she was wrapped in felt and looked strange as well. She rubbed a long fingernail along it. It didn't even begin to tear. Yet, it was so light, she barely knew she wore it. The cloth was so black it seemed to reach out and absorb the light around it. It was a piece of him and he had loaned it to her. Without it his form was like a statue meant to be the personification of the ideal male form.

"Are you sure you don't want to come in?"

Part of her wanted him to. Part of her did not. All of her wanted to hear his answer.

"Yes."

She shrugged and kept walking.

"Is it because I'm not pretty enough for you?"

He shook his head.

"No. I appreciate beauty. I just don't base my choices on it. You don't lack it if I did. I mean to watch these streets all night. And I have no desire to be another man who takes something from you before leaving you alone again."

She smiled sadly, but the glow hadn't diminished from her face.

"You really are an old-fashioned knight in shining armor, aren't you?"

He shook his head again.

"Some Knights in shining armor were like the men who attacked you. Most men who are _not_ like them, never wore armor."

She smiled and fingered her covering.

"Or a cape?"

"Or a cape."

"Whatever they wore, there aren't any left but you."

"There are a few more I know of in this city, and a few more than that scattered over the globe."

She glanced at him, but then turned back and continued.

"Not nearly enough, not compared to the other kind this _"__fine"_ city's filled with."

His eyes narrowed.

"No . . . not nearly enough."

She looked up at him. His shoulders had slumped. For a moment, she felt sorrier for him than herself. They got to her apartment building. She jerked her head in the direction of one of its sides.

"My window faces the West."

"I'll wait beneath the fire escape."

Then the glow was gone. She fingered the cape around her shoulders more purposefully. A sly slant came over her eyes. A wicked note of humor surfaced in her voice.

"You know, I might try to keep this cape. Its special isn't it? Someone will give me a nice wad of green for something like this. I'd have to be an idiot, or a lot better person than you'll find in this place, to pass that up. Not everyone ignores opportunities like you."

His gaze fixed itself on a place just above her eyes again.

"You could."

The woman blinked. Then raised an eyebrow.

"Would you come after me for it?"

"No. I'd track down whoever you sold it to."

The wicked gleam came back into her eyes. Her crimson mouth twisted into a smirk. The words it formed came out in a low, triumphant drawl.

"So it'd just be their loss?"

He shifted his gaze one degree lower. His eyes looked directly into hers.

She shrank back a fraction. She was a little afraid, though of what she didn't know. The lines of his face softened. A note of sadness rang in his voice.

"You could say that, but some would say otherwise."

Then he turned. He stepped into the shadows. They swallowed him. The woman's eyes widened. She stepped inside. She suddenly felt more vulnerable to the evil that seemed always present in this place.

. . .

His gaze pierced the darkness. He waited, taking in the sight of her building of residence. The fire escapes on the West side of the building were not even _close_ to safety code. He wished his suggestion to her didn't include them.

The chances of her tossing out his cape were not great. He'd wait though. He'd told her he would. And, his cape couldn't fall into certain hands.

He would have to track it down if she hocked it. Thankfully, he doubted her usual contacts would know how to take full advantage of it. He was not sorry he'd given it to her. There was no honor in making a woman march half naked beside you through the streets, or even alone through the halls of her apartment building. From now on, though, he would bring something for situations like these other than a length of advanced, experimental cloth.

A creak echoed through the air. He looked up. A form wrapped in a bathrobe with wild, dirty hair stepped out onto the fire escape. One of its arms tossed something over the rail. A length of cloth drifted downwards.

Madge watched as an arm whipped out and seized the cape before vanishing back into the longer, but not blacker, shadows. Even after it disappeared, she continued to gaze down from her perch, trying to decide if she was more surprised at him or herself.

She turned back into her room and took out her sketch book. There was pitifully little she could do to fight against her circumstances and those who took advantage of them. She had one power, though, that her peers did not. It comforted her even more than her scotch bottle and cigarettes.

When she was little, Madge had learned to draw. She'd never believed she could make a living at it, few artists can. Yet, if the right people had seen them, she might not have to continue in her current line of work.

The characters she sketched were always dark, frightening demons, with familiar faces. Almost always. Tonight she drew something a little different. Her subject was dressed like a demon, but his expression was kind. Partly hidden in shadow, partly exposed to the light, he looked down with gentle eyes. He held out a long, black piece of cloth. When she was finished, Madge took a certain pride she hadn't felt in a long time writing, "_The Night Watch"_ over it.

**If you like something, tell me so I can do more of it. If you didn't, tell me that too, so I can fix it. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, or Gotham City. **

**This story is for entertainment purposes, so please read and be entertained.**

In the darkness of coming back to consciousness, Batman heard the sound of women crying. He also felt an aching along his back, the backs of his arms and legs, and the back of his head. The smell of damp blacktop and cheap perfume hung over him.

So, he was lying on a damp road, surrounded by women. He'd likely fallen there. That was not enough information.

Batman didn't move. He couldn't appear alive yet. Before he drew attention to himself, he needed to piece together what had happened. How had he gotten here?

. . .

During the last month, members of Gotham City crime organizations had become a greater presence in the Red Light District. Mob gunman had begun spending entire nights outside its bars, clubs, apartments, etc. They stood on its street corners and in its alleys.

Their hands were always near or in pockets. Their eyes scanned the tops of buildings. They never attempted to gain the attention of the locals. Overhearing bets on who'd get the job done confirmed his conclusion. He was their target.

The response of residents of the Red Light District had been interesting. They always approached such men, even offered services for free. The men would disappear with these women. They usually didn't reappear before Batman left as the sky turned gray.

More overheard conversations revealed the men's guns were gone or empty when they left. If The Dark Knight had faith in his fellow human beings, he would've believed the prostitutes were protecting him. As things were, he allowed it was a possibility. Batman began to remember what had occurred this night.

One gunman had tired of waiting. The member of the South Side Cartel was infamous for his aim. When he threatened others, Batman disarmed the killer from the darkness before approaching him.

The mobster had worn a cold, wide grin the first few nights he'd loitered in The Red Light District. The most distracting natives had attached themselves to him every night. At first the gunman had enjoyed it. Then his grin had become a scowl. He had noticed the pattern of his guns and bullets disappearing after these encounters. That night he'd exploded.

He'd smiled at her when she'd approached. He'd continued smiling, and leaning against the brick wall as she'd leaned into him. When she had raised her mouth to whisper in his ear, he had wrapped his left arm around her waist, and drawn her closer. Then he had tightened his hold.

He'd squeezed out her breath. She'd gasped. Then she laughingly asked him to "ease up." He didn't answer. Instead he'd begun to march into the street, dragging her with him.

She'd started asking him what he was doing. He hadn't answered, hadn't even looked at her. He just strode on. His gaze was fixed on a particular spot in the street.

She'd clawed at his arm, trying to pull it loose. He'd only squeezed harder. She'd begun screaming. Everyone in earshot had turned to stare. Her captor became the only one not looking at her.

Maintaining his silence, the mobster had dragged her out to a spot visible from Batman's favorite vantage point in the area. Then the gunman drew out a revolver. The killer had pressed the end of its cold muzzle to his distraction's pretty temple. Then he'd shouted so loud his hostage winced. The Dark Knight had been able to understand every word.

"GET OUT HERE BAT! OR I SWEAR I'LL BLOW HER HEAD OFF!

A batarang would have jostled the hand, causing it to squeeze the trigger. A sneak attack would have done the same. A smoke pellet would cause the mobster to retaliate against his hostage. Any startled movement could pull the trigger. A life not his own would have been snuffed out. It had not been guaranteed she would live if he did as the gunman asked. It was clear she would not if he did nothing. The South Side Cartel carried out their threats. That was their business strategy.

As The Dark Knight had considered these things, the gunman had started counting. He hadn't even said what number he was counting to. Batman shot his grappling gun at a building across the street the killer and his hostage stood on. Then he had swung down.

_Alfred and Lucius will blame themselves. Leslie is going to tell them "I told you so," because she won't be able to say it to me. They need to get out before my mask is removed._

The mobster had reached "nine" when the glow of a streetlamp illuminated his target. Batman remembered the light blinding him, the sound of a gunshot, and a corresponding pain radiating through his chest. He didn't remember letting go of his grappling gun. He didn't remember falling or landing. He must have blacked out from the shock of the bullet hit.

The first shot shouldn't have been fatal. The gun had been a few yards away, and he'd been wearing his body armor. But the mobster should have taken the opportunity to make sure.

Batman took a slow, deep breath. He winced. He was definitely alive. The bullet in the armor had left a bruise in his chest.

The gunman might have shot him there again at closer quarters after the initial shot, but maybe not. Either way, the flesh didn't feel pierced. His back, along with the backs of his arms legs, and head felt bruised, but not broken. That was to be expected after dropping onto tarmac from five to six feet above it, even with the suit. Actually, the armor had performed remarkably well. He needed to congratulate Lucius if he saw him again.

He felt no head wound at all. No bullet was lodged in his brain. Even his mask was still in place. All these facts were unexpected reliefs. Unless his attacker had realized he wasn't dead, and wanted it that way.

Another business strategy of the South Side Cartel was making examples, usually utilizing pain and humiliation. The bodies of their less important enemies were commonly found naked, bruised, broken, and bullet riddled. They showed less mercy to their more important enemies. Perhaps his shooter and others were waiting for him to awake before starting.

He listened harder. There were the sounds of a Gotham night near the bay area, car and boat horns mostly. They were barely discernible over the crying he'd awoken to. That was all audibly discernible. He opened his eyes. Their coverings in his mask would keep this unnoticed.

The former hostage was kneeling over him. Her cheeks were flushed to a painfully deep crimson, and not just from her unnecessarily thick blush. Two black rivers were running through the channels of her face. Her eyelashes were soaked. She could have been sobbing uncontrollably as long as he'd been out. Was she crying because she thought him already dead, or because he was as good as dead?

She seemed unharmed. There had to be a dark bruise along her bare waist he couldn't see from this angle. That would heal if she lived long enough.

She was alive at least. He couldn't have been sure she would be. Giving in to the gunman's demands had guaranteed nothing. It still didn't. Where was their attacker?

Then he realized she couldn't possibly be the cause of all the noise he was hearing. He was surrounded by many distinct sobs, from nearly hysterically high-pitched, to deep, but still feminine gutturals. Various types of sniffs were joining the symphony as well. Seeing the forms to go with the other voices couldn't be accomplished without turning his head. He wasn't ready to do that, yet.

For a few moments he tried to see out of the corners of his eyes. Nothing was visible but his mask. Fixing that was a priority if he got back to the cave.

The realization he had to trust someone crashed over him. Irritation burned in his gut. He stopped himself from tightening his jaw, or clenching his hands into fists.

He allowed himself to rely on his trusted circle when he must. He hated it. It meant they were connected to him, and his less than legal activities. If The Batman was unmasked, their connections to him would almost certainly be. It bothered him, but it couldn't be helped.

Alfred knew almost all of it. He'd been there with him, or had been checking in on him, throughout almost all of it. Lucius' mind was an important resource. It also made him nearly impossible to fool. Leslie had figured it out. He should have known she would. At least she wouldn't be shocked if Alfred ever had to call her in for a medical emergency.

At this moment, what irked Batman the most was how much he needed them right now. His goal was to become less, not more dependent upon them. The second thing that irked him right then was none of them were present.

That satisfied more than irked him really. Their geographical distance gave them a chance to escape whatever happened to him. Ensuring _he_ escaped his enemies' plans now, though, required gaining assistance from someone.

His only option was nearby. She was crying over what she may be assuming was his corpse. That was somewhat reassuring. Still, he found himself wishing she was the first woman he'd rescued here.

She could have taken advantage of his kindness that night. She'd insinuated so to him. But she hadn't. That was reliable evidence you could trust someone. This woman would have to do though.

She was a girl really. Her age was most certainly under eighteen years. That bothered him in more than one way.

He moved his hand, just a degree, and touched her right knee. As he'd feared, she started at the touch. Her sobs stopped. Her eyes flew open and riveted on his face. The crying sounds around them lessened. Her reaction had not gone unnoticed.

He froze. For about thirty seconds nothing happened. Then he spoke without moving any part of him unnecessary to utter the words.

"_Are any of the gunmen within seeing or shooting distance?"_

The girl crouched over him didn't speak. She hadn't moved since he touched her. Her eyes remained as wide as quarters. They didn't blink.

Another voice answered, though, in a whisper. He appreciated that. It came from above his head and a little to his right. The words hissed out and nearly ran together.

"_Not now! But he'll be back with the entire operation soon!"_

If the feminine voice was telling the truth, the situation was better than he'd dared hoped. She might not be. He needed to move fast to take advantage of the potential opportunity. It seemed the most logical thing to do.

He raised himself up on his elbows, sat up, and drew his legs beneath him. It hurt, but not unbearably. He didn't even wince. A weakness shouldn't be exposed to any but the most trusted. All others could be shown only the unchanging mask.

The women crowded around him drew back, like a ripple in a wine glass. As he rose to his feet, he took in his surroundings. He was surprised at the sheer number of the onlookers. There were at least fifty of them. They seemed to range in age from younger than sixteen to pushing sixty. Every woman who lived in the neighborhood seemed to be gathered there. If he had allowed himself to dwell on that, he _might_ have been flattered, but most likely not. Batman didn't gain pleasure from popularity.

At the moment, what mattered most to him was that there were indeed no other men, let alone gunmen, in sight. No one had taken another shot at him. He saw and heard no one drawing or aiming a weapon. He began to locate the best escape route. Before he did, one woman spoke.

"How?"

He paused. He thought about telling them the truth, for three seconds. No, that wasn't necessary. If even one, intentionally or unintentionally, repeated it in the hearing of an enemy, or in the hearing of someone who would, it would do his mission damage. Once an enemy knew what wouldn't kill you, they put their efforts into more effective measures. He kept his answer brief and unclear, but not misleading.

"Trade secret."

He shot his line onto the roof of his watch spot. Before he could make it draw him up, the woman spoke again. He turned to her. It was the woman he'd first rescued here.

"Will you be all right?"

Her face was a mask, much like his own. The voice was masked to, expressionless and direct. He glanced at her. Then he swept his gaze over the other tear stained faces.

"Don't waste any more tears on me tonight."

He pushed the retracting button on his grappling hook. Then, like a real bat, he flew off into the shadows. The crowd of women followed his ascent until the darkness hid him.

. . .

He went to a different vantage point. There the darkness could make him invisible to eyes beneath or around it. The structure couldn't be scaled without climbing gear. It was not as near all the hot spots of trouble in the area as the place he'd been before, but it was near enough to the place he'd been. He could see it clearly through his binoculars.

He watched through them as a group of men approached the place he'd been laid out five minutes and forty seconds ago. The area was otherwise empty now. The women had dispersed, and rushed to their apartments. Likely they'd locked their doors behind them.

If any of the men tried to break in, to shake them down for information, he would have to interfere. He would not show himself again that night if they didn't. As the woman had said earlier, it looked like the entire South Side Cartel had come. Until his absence became clear, his shooter had strode out before the rest of the crowd. The gunman stopped cold when he saw the bare place he'd left his victim's body.

The man to the shooter's right turned on him. The Dark Knight recognized him from the scar along his right cheek. He was the second highest ranking member of the South Side Cartel. The cheek beneath the scar turned purple as the man continued to scream at the shooter. Batman could not quite make out his words as they came over the night air. Then the Scar-Cheeked leader gestured for the men to spread out.

They were going to search for him, likely among the women. There were no police in the area. The possibility of them interfering if they had been was almost nonexistent. What was likely was that locks on the doors of the Red Light District would be inferior.

Distance mattered more than accuracy. That was good. The distance was over two-hundred feet. He aimed over their heads, and let a batarang fly. Before the designated searchers had more than taken a few steps out of the crowd, they heard a familiar, whirring sound. They glanced up in time to see the street lights flash off a missile flying over their heads.

The entire crowd ducked. They needn't have. The missile flew five feet above the heads of the tallest among them. It hit a brick wall and stuck.

The Scar-Cheeked man clenched his jaw as he stared at the bat-shaped piece of black metal. Light flashed over its razor edges. The mob boss turned.

There was a barely discernible outline against the smog-filled sky atop a building over two hundred feet away. It was a familiar, hated shape. The moment he saw it, the figure turned and disappeared. There was no use searching for the vigilante then.

He punched the incompetent in the jaw and gut before demoting him. The man was too good, usually, to get rid of permanently. This would make him more careful next time. No more staking out this place though. It was a waste of man and gun power. If they didn't get so much protection money from it, he'd have burned it to the ground!

. . .

That night a rumor spread The Bat was immortal. It was not believed by the majority of Gotham's citizens for long, but it didn't quite die out for nearly two decades.

**If you liked something, tell me, so I can do more of it. If you didn't like something, tell me that too, so I can fix it.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, James Gordon, or Gotham City. I did create Madge and Clarice.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes, so please read and be entertained.**

Madge closed the door of her apartment and turned around. She blinked.

"Bat! What are you doing here?"

His cape fluttered in the breeze coming through the open window. The rest of his form was as still as her furniture. In her fully lit apartment, the vigilante didn't seem the living shadow he did on the dark streets. Every strap and seam of his suit was clearly defined.

His gaze seemed fixed on her bare wood floor. He didn't look up at her question. She was forming a sarcastic remark about this, when he fell to one knee.

She strode over to and knelt down in front of him. Beads of sweat were on what little face his mask left exposed. Madge grimaced and covered her nose.

"You smell of smoke and gas, what happened?!"

"Car exploded."

Her eyes widened. He still didn't look up.

"It's a long story."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Toxin. I'll sweat it out . . . Just need . . . somewhere . . . to sweat it out . . . Couldn't . . . make it . . . anywhere else. I'm sorry."

"Who managed to poison you?"

"Someone . . . who got . . . creative . . ."

"What do you need?"

"Water . . . , as cold as . . . you can get it."

"Okay. Do you want to sit or lie down?"

"I'll lay on the floor . . . , behind the bed . . . , hidden."

"Oh (censored) you will."

With that she grabbed his right arm, dragged him to his feet, and shoved him onto her bed. His feet hung over it until he lifted himself into a sitting position. As he did she grabbed her coffee pot and headed for the bathroom. While the water ran, he spoke to her back.

"If anyone comes in . . ."

"No one's comin in! You stay put!"

"You realize . . . I'll be here all night?"

"Yeah, I figured."

She poured him a few glasses of water. They were as cold as she could get them with the building's plumbing and no ice. As he drank his third glass, she noticed his hand was shaking.

"I think you need a doctor Bat."

"They wouldn't . . . be able . . . to do anything. No antidote. Just need . . . to sweat out . . . the overdose."

"Wait . . . _Overdose?"_

"More than . . . is necessary . . . to kill me. If there's enough . . . in the system . . . the body . . . recognizes it . . . flushes it out."

"You're serious?"

"Yes."

"And you still don't want a doctor?"

"No."

"I have a gun. I was gonna give it to you the next time I saw ya. I can hold the doc at gunpoint while he looks you over, like in the westerns."

"No."

She scowled down at what she could see of his face. It was pouring sweat. She couldn't imagine what the rest was doing under that mask. She reached for the cowl. He reached up just as slowly, and grabbed her wrist.

She waited for him to squeeze until tears stung her eyes. Instead, he lowered it to the bedspread and let go. His voice didn't rise or lower an octave.

"It's better . . . you . . . not know."

"You need to sweat it out don't you?"

"You can't . . . see . . . my face."

She jerked both her hands out of his reach. Then she launched herself from his bedside. He was almost grateful. It created a slight breeze on his jaw for a moment.

He heard her stomping as he watched her march off toward her bathroom. Then he heard the turn of a squeaky nob, and water running into the tub. She returned with a towel. The water running off it left a trail of drops behind her. She came up to stand at his bedside. The anger in her words was held in check, like a dog straining at the end of its leash.

"Look. This is one (censored) big towel. Now, I'll hold it over your head, you take off that (censored) mask, and I'll put it over that (censored), top secret face of yours. Okay?"

The Bat studied her without answering for a full minute.

"Turn . . . around."

She did.

"Look . . . straight ahead . . . and don't move . . . until . . . I tell you."

She could hear the sound of velcro being ripped apart, slow and a little at a time. This was eventually replaced by the sound of something being pulled off. She was surprised at the stench that followed.

The scent reminded her of a hamper stuffed with a high-school football team's sweaty towels. As she covered her mouth and nose with one hand, Madge felt the towel being taken from the other. She heard it slapping down on skin, then rustling sheets and water being wrung out of cloth. The movements ceased. A long, drawn out breath echoed through the room.

"You can . . . turn back . . . around."

She did. He had removed his mask. The towel was wrapped around his face, with its ends tied into a knot in the back. Nearly the exact same area of his face was covered by it as had been before. The mask itself lay on the pillow, as if a dark, deflated, soulless head lay there. While studying these things, her train of thought was broken by his voice.

"Can you . . . bring me . . . another?"

By the time she stopped running back and forth, he had a towel soaked in cold water wrapped around both of his wrists, and one thrown across over his throat, so the water could drip beneath his chest piece. He even had a piece of cloth wrapped around the glass of water sitting on the nightstand beside him. She'd thought about asking him about that last one when he felt better. After thinking it over for herself, she'd realized it was probably to prevent fingerprints.

He turned the towels by increments so the wettest sides were turned inward and the sides that had dried next to his oven like face were turned outward. When the cloth seemed too dry to do anymore good, she refilled the pitcher and walked back over to the side of the bed.

His blindfolded gaze followed her path. When she came back to stand beside the head of the bed, she explained.

"I'll pour this water on the towel. You won't have to take it off."

He nodded. She poured. After the last drop landed, she straightened. His head hadn't moved, but his lips did.

"Thank you."

She blinked.

"Well, I want you to live, so you can punch out a few more (censored) who have it comin."

"You didn't . . . have to do . . . any of this."

Her voice lowered and softened. There was a catch in it.

"You don't have to do anything for us either."

It was then she realized the slight shaking in his hands had become violent trembling throughout his body.

"Bat?"

"Just the . . . toxin . . ."

"Should I get you another blanket?"

"You . . . don't . . . have . . . another . . . blanket . . ."

Madge jerked open the drawer of her nightstand and grabbed something before slamming it shut.

"I can get one."

She went out, banging the door shut behind her. After striding four doors down, she beat her fist against number thirty-eight. A scratchy, sharp voice from inside shouted a response.

"What!"

"Open up Clarice!"

Clarice did. She stared at Madge with bleary eyes. A lit cigarette was in her right hand. The scent of something stronger wafted from the room behind her.

"What do you want?"

"I need a blanket."

"What?"

"I need a blanket! Here!"

Madge shoved a carton of cigarettes at her.

"I decided to quit. You can have them. Just gimme a blanket."

A look came over Clarice's face that made her resemble a sly, buzzed fox. She swayed forward and backward, to a beat only she heard.

"Well . . . I donoooo . . ."

Madge snatched the box of cigarettes back from her, and held them behind her back with her right hand, while putting her left arm up, elbow pointed out toward the other woman. Clarice's eyes first grew wide, and then hard. Madge stared back into them.

"Blanket. Now."

Clarice disappeared into her room and came back with a disgusting bundle of thick cloth in her arms. When she got within a few steps of the other woman, she tossed it at Madge's head. Madge caught it before it could fall over her like a net, and tossed the last of her cigarettes at Clarice. Then she turned, and strode back to her room.

She got there, opened it with her key, and slipped in before closing it behind her. She walked to the bed with a slight bounce in her steps. Then she threw the blanket over her sweating, trembling, straight-faced guest.

"Here! Told you I could get another one."

"What . . . did you . . . give up . . . for it?"

"A bad habit."

His trembling got worse instead of better. The gleam of triumph disappeared from her eyes.

"Bat?"

"It'll . . . help me . . . sweat it out . . . , but the . . . shaking . . . won't . . . stop until I . . . have."

"_Is there any chance you won't?"_

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Bat?"

His voice sounded harder than norm as well as shaky.

"At some point . . . , I'll likely . . . get delirious . . . When that happens . . . , don't mind anything . . . I say . . . , but keep the towel . . . on my face . . . and don't . . . look at it . . . . After that. . . I'll either . . . get better . . . or I won't.

Her face paled.

"What am I gonna do then Bat?"

He was quiet for a moment more, and then replied through chattering teeth.

"Come . . . closer."

She did. She felt sicker than men sick in another way had made her feel in a long time. She sat down at the foot of the bed. She waited for the least sick man, in that way, she'd ever met to speak. He did. She winced at the opening of what was a long speech for him.

"If I . . . stop . . . breathing . . . , get cold . . . , and you can't find . . . a pulse . . . or make me . . . bleed . . . , take off the . . . suit. I already . . . removed . . . the belt."

She knew that. It was hanging right within his reach from the head of the bed.

"Hide it . . . , all of it . . . Then call . . . Gordon."

"Gordon who?"

"Officer . . . Gordon."

The policeman?"

"He's an . . . honest cop."

"The only honest cop," she muttered.

"Tell him . . . I hired you . . . for the night . . . , but got sick. Tell him. . . I told you . . . to stay . . . until I . . . felt better . . . You did . . . , I didn't . . . You finally . . . realized . . . I was dead. In . . . my right . . . boot . . . is three thousand . . . take it . . . for your . . . trouble . . ."

"Should I try to leave the towel-mask?"

"After . . . you take off . . . everything else . . . , you can. . . look . . . , before you call . . . It's even . . . more important . . . in death . . . , than life . . . that nobody know . . . who I was . . . After they . . . take me away . . . , someone . . . might come . . . who knew me . . . without the mask . . . Give everything. . . to them. They'll know . . . what to do . . . with it. Tell them you did . . . absolutely . . . everything . . . you could . . . I wouldn't . . . let you . . . get help. They'll believe you."

"You make a habit of this, huh?"

"You could . . . say that."

"Okay. Is there anything else I can do . . ?"

The Batman shook his head.

"Anything your mom or dad or whoever looked after you used to do? Favorite song or somethin? You're lookin pretty miserable Bat, help me out here."

"They read . . . to me."

"Oh . . . sorry. I don't have any books."

"I know . . . You draw."

"It's kinda creepy you know that, Bat." Madge looked at the towel. "Besides, I don't think that's gonna help you much."

"Can you . . . get your sketches?"

"I _can_ . . . "

"Go . . . ahead."

She got up and, came back with her sketch book in her hands, confused.

"Flip to . . . the first page."

She did.

"Describe it . . . to me."

Madge did as he asked. He listened without comment, nodding at times. Her words distracted him from the symptoms somewhat, especially since he was dividing his attention between it, and listening for any sound at the closed door or open window. Madge paused when she finished describing her first sketch.

"Want me to go on to the next?" He nodded. She did.

The trembling got worse. She stopped at times to pull the blankets up, get water, and pour it in a glass or moisten the towels with it. Every time she asked if he wanted her to keep talking about the drawings he nodded, until he stopped responding to her altogether. She went on checking the towels and moistening them when they dried.

At one point, she ran to get more water. When she returned, he'd turned over. The towel that had covered his face was on the floor next to the bed. She froze.

All there was to see was jet-back hair. His face was turned into the pillow. That was still more than she'd known before.

She rushed over and picked the towel up. Her back was turned towards him. She heard movement, and then his voice. But it didn't sound like him. The speaker seemed confused, frightened, and child-like. The lips speaking were trembling more than ever.

"Mom . . .?"

She froze mid stoop. She didn't dare turn around. She held her breath. He called to her again.

"Mom . . ?"

In a breaking voice she answered without turning around.

"Go to sleep."

"Is dad . . . home yet?"

"No . . . he'll get here soon. Go back to sleep."

"I had . . . a nightmare."

"I'm sorry, but you still have to go back to sleep."

"Something . . . happened . . . to both . . . of you."

"It was only a dream. Just go back to sleep."

"Dad told me . . . not to be . . . scared . . . and be . . . a hero . . . like you . . . I tried . . ."

"Baby . . . you . . . you should really . . ."

"Why won't . . . you . . . look at me?"

"Turn around and I will."

"Why . . . ?"

"Just do it."

She heard rustling on the pillow. Madge stood up without turning. Her eyes bored into the opposite wall. She reached out toward him like a blind person and felt the wet cloth of the pillow, and then wet hair. She closed her eyes, spun around and slapped the towel down before looking.

Madge relaxed when she saw the towel was covering his entire head. He turned toward her, entangling his head into the towel even more. She quickly turned its corner up to reveal his chin, mouth, and bottom of his nose. He took in a deep breath that turned into a sigh.

"Do you feel any better?"

"Not as . . . hot . . . but I can't . . . see you . . ."

"I know, but you can hear me."

"Will you . . . read to me?"

"No . . . you better go to sleep. It will make you feel better."

He sighed again.

"All right. Mom . . . ?

"Yes . . . ?"

"I'm glad . . . you and . . . dad . . . are okay."

Her voice broke again as she replied.

"So am I."

He fell asleep, still trembling. Eventually, he began to shake less. An hour and forty-three minutes later, Madge kept track, he stirred. Half asleep herself, Madge came fully awake and leaned over him.

"You getting better bats?"

She slumped in relief when the voice answered her in the tone she was familiar with.

"Yes . . . You can . . . rest now. I'll look after . . . myself . . . until I leave . . ."

She gave him a bitter, sarcastic smile he couldn't see.

"You look worse than me."

He acted like he didn't hear.

"Get some rest . . . , you deserve it."

"You sure you'll be okay?"

"Yes."

"Guess I'll go sleep in the tub, then. Good morning!" While her back was turned, he gave a half smile she didn't see either.

. . .

In full gear, Batman stepped softly into the bathroom that was barely big enough for him to do so. Madge was asleep, curled up in her tub. He threw the blanket from Clarice over her, then lifted her head to slide a pillow under it. She didn't wake, but snuggled into the comforters. He straightened, then reached into one of his belt's many pouches and removed four, crumpled $500 dollar bills. He laid these folded in half together on her. He placed the empty and dried glass that had sat by his bedside on top of the bills. He glanced back at Madge, then turned and left.

. . .

Madge scowled at the cylinder of tobacco and paper as she held the lighter up to its end.

"I thought you quit."

Madge spun toward the voice. As she did, the fire escape creaked beneath her feet. A dark shadow shot up from the fire escape across from hers. He pinned her own with a black gaze until the creak faded into silence. The rigging had stilled instead of giving way.

With a slight relaxing of his shoulders, The Dark Knight looked up and met Madge's eyes. She was scowling even more sharply at him than she had at the cigarette.

"Do you have anything else to say?"

One of his eyebrows lifted.

"Only my thanks. Does that upset you?"

"Not as much as the other 'thank you,' you left me the night before last."

"The money?"

Looking away, Madge stuck the cigarette into her mouth and sucked in without replying. He continued to watch her.

"You didn't work that night."

"It was my night off!"

Smoke spilled out of her mouth along with her words. His frown deepened.

"You don't get a night off."

Madge looked away. The Batman waited. When she didn't say anything, he went on.

"You didn't ask for anything when I came to you. And what you did was more than I asked for. That says more about you than what you do to survive. What I left didn't come close to repaying what I owe you. I thought of it as lost wages. I didn't want your good deed punished."

Madge's shoulders slumped.

"_Okay Bat."_

The Batman nodded, turned, and had shot his grappling gun at the roof of the building across from hers. Before it pulled him up, Madge spoke again while stepping on her cigarette.

"Bat . . ."

He turned back to face her.

"You don't owe me a thing,"

She turned and went into her apartment. He watched her go, before disappearing into the night.

**If you liked something, tell me, so I can do more of it. If you didn't like something, tell me that too, so I can fix it.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer- I do not own Batman or Gotham City. However, this particular neighborhood in Gotham City and the other characters in this chapter are my creations.**

**Apologies to my wonderful reviewer gordios79, to whom I wrote I would be attempting to post this chapter on Sunday. I did, but after 10 p.m. where I was. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint gordios79.**

Madge's eyes flicked to the side as she spied Jeannette slipping a fifty into her boot. As she spoke, Madge looked back to her feet as she slipped on her own shoes. "You know that's asking for trouble."

"Oh come one Madge." Jeannette grumbled. "He won't make me take off my boots. He likes me tall."

Deidra snorted. "He doesn't like anyone. No one likes him. And you won't catch me making him like me less by sneaking cash by him. I spend mine before I get back."

Both Jeannette and Madge rolled their eyes.

"So, what are you saving up for?" Francesca asked while brushing out her waist length, black hair. As the other girls were removing make up, wigs, tights, etcetera, she was freshening herself back up.

Jeannette shrugged. "A way out, enough to get out of this burg long enough to find other work."

Francesca smiled. "Getting out of this place. Want to drink to that?"

"With what?" Not only Jeannette, but Madge and Deidra turned toward the other woman. Francesca knelt before "her" dressing table, and pulled out a wine bottle. The jaws of all three girls dropped.

Francesca smirked at their expressions. "Gift from my best customer. Of course we have to borrow a few cups from the bar."

"No thanks," Deidra muttered. She turned and headed for the door. "I can get better than cheap wine." She slammed the door behind her and all three other women rolled their eyes again. Francesca chuckled.

"She left before I could tell her this was the good stuff."

The three women left the club. Francesca smiled when she saw a long, black car parked across the street.

"Tell Samson I'll be back tomorrow morning, but with more cash from staying out late."

She jogged over as fast as she could in heels. A back door opened for her and she hopped in. The car's engine roared to life and it pulled away from the curb. The other two women watched with their mouths set in grim lines.

"How long do you think it will last?"

"I give it anywhere from a week to a month."

"You'd think she'd know better by now."

"We all have our illusions."

Madge glanced at Jeannette's boot, and Jeannette pretended not to notice.

. . .

The women entered the apartment building a wad of bills in their fists to pay that night's rent. No tall, broad landlord appeared to collect.

"That's weird."

"Maybe he went out."

"He usually stays in."

"No skin off my nose," Jeannette replied before jogging up the stairs. Madge watched from below before slowly following. When she got up she saw Jeannette staring at the first door near the stairs. She came up behind her and whispered.

_"__He in there?"_

_"__Doesn't sound like it."_

They walked on and Madge reached her room. Before going in she turned to watch Jeannette putting her key into her own lock. "G'night Jeannette."

A corner of Jeannette's mouth turned up. "More like good morning."

Madge snorted before stepping into her room and closing the door behind her. Jeannette swung open her own door and froze. A man was sitting in the only chair in the room. His bulk made it look like a child's toy. As soon as his gaze met Jeannette's he rose from it. He held up a folded over stack of bills that smelled of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and the inside of a boot.

Jeannette was backing away from his approach step by step, even as he spoke. "Holding on to what was mine were ya?" Jeannette's back hit the wall of the hallway. The man stepped through her doorway as he continued to growl.

"You no good (censored)."

Jeannette turned and flew down the stairway. The heel of her shoe caught on a step and she fell. Before she'd caught her breath or raised herself to her hands or feet, she was yanked up by her hair. She was dragged off of and then back up the steps to her hallway. There she was thrown back onto the stained carpet. She turned and backed into the wall again. As the fist flew towards her face she had final thought before the pain drove out the ability to think.

_"__I was just as dumb as Francesca."_

. . .

Batman was standing in his usual spot when a flash of light caught his eye. It was a tiny, red flame flashing from right to left, creating a trail of light. He swung over to the fire escape of an empty apartment.

Madge turned off her lighter and bent over the rail of her own fire escape to meet his gaze.

"Samson's beating Jeannette. I don't think he's going to stop until she'd dead."

Batman swung the side of his fist at the window beside him. Glass shattered. Grasping the inner frame of the window Batman yanked it upwards. Halfway up he used his other hand to shove it the rest of the way and slid inside. He strode to the door across from the window. Lifting his right leg he solidly kicked the part of the door even with the doorknob. It flew open with a crack. He strode into the hall, and turned to his right.

Jeanette tasted salt as she bit down a little harder on her bottom lip. He was squeezing both her wrists in his left hand. She pressed her back into the wall behind her as much as she could as he cocked his right arm again. Suddenly another hand grabbed Samson's wrist.

In one motion Samson turned, letting go of her wrists and making a fist with his right hand he swung at whoever had dared interfere. His fist was caught in midair. The hand that caught it squeezed and twisted at the same time.

Samson gave a yell that was cut off as a blow was delivered to his solar plexus. The Batman leaned down and whispered into the man's ear as he tried to catch his breath. "Be careful how you use the other one." He dropped the man's hand.

Samson shot to his feet and flung himself at the intruder. Batman stepped aside. Samson flew past and crashed into the floor. He didn't get up. Batman checked his pulse and diagnosed it as a mild concussion. The damage to the victim and to the perpetrator's hand, however, was not mild.

A blond woman had exited the first room by the stairs. She stared at the still form of the man. Tears shimmered in her blue eyes. Batman turned toward her. She took a step back from him.

"Call for two ambulances."

"Is he dead?"

"No, but they both need an ambulance, and not the same one."

"Just go call for the (censored) ambulances Alice!" Madge had opened the door of her apartment to survey the scene.

The blond woman turned and flew down the stairs with a soft cry.

Madge rolled her eyes and stepped up to Jeannette's side. Batman had already knelt down beside the woman. _"I need to determine if you can wait for the ambulance. I'll have to examine you."_

_"__Go ahead," _Jeannette wheezed. _"It can't be the worst part of my night." _

**Review are highly valued, read, and often responded to. **


	5. Chapter 5

**I neither created nor own Batman, Gotham, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, or Lucius Fox. However, I have created the other characters in this story. I also created this Red Light District of Gotham City. **

**I want to thank Anonymous Rex for the wonderful reviews. ****J**

A phone hung on the wall of the hospital hallway leading from the emergency room to the waiting room. It was for worried family and friends of the patient who needed to contact and worry other family members and friends of the patient. No one paid any attention to it unless they had to use it. So, when it rang everyone just stared at it, except for Dr. Leslie Thomkins who answered it.

Everyone found this less strange than the fact the phone was ringing. No one thought it odd Dr. Thomkins took charge of an oddly ringing phone. She was that type of woman. Whether or not she was technically in charge she acted like she was. She faced the strange and distasteful without flinching, and got unpleasant tasks out of the way as soon as they came. Even those there who didn't know her could see these things in her straight face as she picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Keep the incoming patients as far apart as possible."

The line went dead. Dr. Thomkins hung up. She turned around to find Dr. Brown staring at her with furrowed brows. "What was that?"

"Exactly what I thought it was," Leslie replied.

The man opened his mouth, but the sound of sirens made him close it again. He and Leslie strode in that direction. The other doctors followed, entirely forgetting about the mysteriously ringing phone.

Between the woman's condition, the scrapes on the man's knuckles, and answers given by the paramedic's who'd brought them no one questioned Dr. Thomkins orders to put the patients on opposite ends of the wings and in assigning extra security on both rooms.

. . .

Leslie trudged up the steps to her home. She unlocked her front door, swung it open, and stared at the six-ft-two man built like a football linebacker who was standing in her front hall. She finished stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind her.

"I could've seen those patients needed to be kept apart without the phone call."

"How are they?"

Leslie removed her coat and hung it up on the rack as she replied.

"They'll both live. The damage to her mouth will keep her from eating solids. The damage to her ribs will keep her from laughing or breathing deeply. The damage to her left eye will keep her from seeing out of it for days. The damage to his hand and wrist should keep him from using either for weeks, and I don't blame you."

Leslie turned back in time to see to her god-son's head droop forward, as his eyelids slide shut above their dark bags. One hand went back to her left hip. The other pointed toward the staircase.

"Upstairs, bed, now. I'll call Alfred."

"I can make it back the mansion."

"You'll risk driving in your condition?"

"I'll set the car to automatically travel through the tunnel syste. . ."

"I don't care. It will give us a chance to talk this afternoon, now go."

"We can talk now."

"When you've slept. I won't talk to someone who's slurring his words in exhaustion."

A corner of Bruce's mouth quirked up, then fell again before he turned and began to climb the stairs. Leslie marched behind him. Inwardly she sighed in relief. Bruce was no longer the boy she could pick up and carry up these stairs when he decided to be stubborn.

They stopped at the first door in the hall. Leslie opened the door, placed her free hand into the small of Bruce's back, and pushed him inside the guest bedroom. Once inside he slowly turned back to face her. Then his hand shot out and grabbed the inside door knob.

Leslie gave her knob a jerk. He held the door in place. She crossed her arms and stared up at him. His eyes pierced unrepentantly back into hers.

"How much were their hospital bills?"

"Not now."

"The fight started over her keeping $293 for herself. His hospital bill will be paid by the other women working longer hours."

"Neither will have to pay for months. We can afford to take nine hours of sleep before talking about it."

"How's 'Escape Route' coming?"

"Do I need to examine your ears, Bruce?"

"I won't be able to sleep until I know."

She sighed. "Lucius said we're making progress."

"How soon?"

"Bruce, we cannot begin to discuss the half-dozen road blocks that need to be overcome before you get at least six hours, and nine if you want to be at your most brilliant when we do."

"Your patient is going to need someplace safe to go when she gets out. So do all the others before the same happens to them."

"I know, Bruce. But neither of us can help them if we don't sleep. And I won't until you do."

Five seconds passed in silence. Bruce let go of the doorknob. He backed up, sat down on a corner of the bed, removed his loafers, and collapsed onto the mattress. Leslie closed the door behind her.

. . .

After a brief pause to glance around the landing Francesca shrugged, then bounced up the steps with a pleased smile on her face. As she strutted down the hallway while digging her key out of her pocket, a door flew open. Her smug grin was gone in an instant.

Deidra shot out of her room and latched onto Francesca's arm. Deidra stared up at her with wild eyes and gave a cackling laugh. "Did you hear, Fran? We don't have to pay rent for a while."

Francesca merely blinked a non-response. The other woman went on, ending her words with shrieking laugh. "The Batman put Samson in the hospital!"

The woman went into a gale of laughter. Then she retreated back into her own room, still caught up in her laughter and who knew what else. Francesca turned as another voice spoke behind her.

"It's true."

Francesca turned. Madge stood in her own doorway, leaning against it, looking as if she might have been trying to sleep and not succeeding. Francesca blinked at her.

"What he do to put the Bat over the edge?"

"He was beating on Jeannette. She's in the hospital too."

Francesca frowned. After a few moments, she gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. "He was beating Jeannette out there?"

"No, in here. Batman's the one who broke that." Madge gestured to the door after hers. Francesca could see the spider like cracks running through the wood.

"How'd the Bat know what was going on in here?"

Madge glanced down at the floor and mumbled under her breath, "Who knows." Then she retreated back into her room closing the door behind her.

Francesca stared at Madge's closed door, glancing from it to the cracked door beside it. She finally opened her own as she stuffed the money she'd been holding into the pocket of the quality men's jacket she wore.

**Reviews are greatly appreciated and often responded to.**


	6. Chapter 6

**I did not create nor own Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Lucius Fox, or Gotham City. I did create the other characters in this story. This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

(Two years before Batman began roaming Gotham)

The seventeen-year-old, blonde female shivered on the bench. She could barely be seen in the smoggy darkness by the light of the distant street light. She huddled with her arms wrapped around herself and kept her eyes on her knees.

He smiled and pointed to her. The other man flashed a grin and nodded. He strode across the street, staying beyond the beams of the streetlamp.

The blond didn't hear the tall man until he spoke a few feet beside her. "Heya toots! Got something for me?"

She shot to her feet, and began to back away. "No . . . no . . ."

The man drew something out of his pocket and flipped the butterfly knife open while approaching her. "Oh, I bet you do."

Blue eyes stared at the knife while her feet continued to back away step by step. She felt a huge mass step up behind her and turned with a squeak. A much taller, broader man growled while pointing over the other man's shoulder. "Get out of here."

The other man turned and raced off into the darkness. The girl turned to the second man, tilting her heart-shaped face upwards. Two dimples appeared in the corners of her grinning mouth. "Thank you!"

"What's a sweet thing like you doing our here in the dark?"

The girl's face fell and she bowed her head. A thick set of fingers tilted her chin back up to look into the man's face. "Need a place to stay tonight?"

Her smile returned beneath wet eyes as she gave a slight nod. He wrapped her arm around her slight shoulders and led her to a neighborhood she had heard to stay away from, but she felt safer than she had all night. He took her inside the apartment building and up the stairs. There he opened a door and gestured her inside. "Just let me know if you need anything."

"Do . . . do you know of any place looking for a waitress or maid or something, maybe you need a maid here. I don't want to be burden."

"Oh I know where a pretty girl like you can make more in one night than a waitress or maid makes in a month."

"I . . . I don't do things like that."

The man's meaty shoulder rose. "Suit yourself. If you want things you can't get as a maid or waitress, all you have to do is flash that pretty smile at me and a few people I know."

Over the next days he touched her in ways that made her feel uncomfortable and drove her places she didn't want to be, but he had saved her from something she was certain would have been worse, so she said nothing. She said nothing when he never took her to the places she asked him to. She said nothing when he sweetly insisted he couldn't let her go back out into that cold world until he saw her well on her way. Finally, the things he did made her feel as if she was no longer too good for that work. When he took her money to put toward her expenses she still said nothing. She especially said nothing when his eyes suddenly flashed hard, and his grip suddenly got painful. She had no one but him anymore, him and the other women who saw through him. So, the night Batman sent her Samson to the hospital, Alice rocked herself on her bed, and cried.

. . .

Samson scowled up at the ceiling of the ambulance. This was the second time a traitorous (censored) and an uppity fighter had put him in one of these. This was why he didn't trust them. They always did this to you. But he'd learned.

He'd been a fool when he'd thought he'd seen the pride in her eyes as she met him with the press of her lips and body against his sweaty skin after every match, whether he won or lost. He thought she ment everything she said all those nights. He believed her when she said they were on top of the world, on their way, going all the way. He hadn't hid his injury from her. He'd seen no reason why. Just when he could have had it all, his opponent took advantage of that injury. He'd looked for her after that match, and hadn't found her. She'd come to the hospital a few times. Then she stopped. It wasn't until he got out he'd learned she'd cleaned him out, his savings, his trophies, his drugs and bottles, and then he'd seen her on the tube, with him, the reigning champ of the ring, standing there with his enemy when she should have been standing there with him.

He'd learned. He couldn't get to her, but he'd make every (censored) like her he could get his hands on pay, pay for everything they took from him. And that Bat would pay too, oh yeah, he'd pay big time.

. . .

The meeting to discuss "Escape Route" and other projects like it lasted three hours and an entire pot of chamomile tea. Afterwards, all involved felt only slightly more hopeful about Gotham's future than they had before the meeting. As soon as Lucius left, Leslie laid her hand over the closed fist Bruce had on the table. He turned his gaze to meet hers.

"Bruce, what will you do if five years from now nothing in this city has changed?"

Bruce looked down to study the map laid out on the table.

"Everything changes one way or another."

Leslie rolled her eyes and tried again. "What will you do if everything's gotten worse?"

"Attempt to create or implement tactics better than these."

Leslie laid her head down on the table. Bruce raised his gaze from the map to watch. After a moment a mumble came from the face pressed into the wood. "What have I done to you, Bruce?"

The younger man reached out and laid a hand on one of hers. She looked up to meet the gaze of stormy-grey eyes that were locked on hers. His tone was deep and firm. "If you hadn't made me see beyond my own pain, you would have already lost me to it."

Leslie sighed, sat up straight again, sipped her tea, and said, "I think Jeannette Phillips is going to need outpatient therapy when we release her."

Bruce smiled at his godmother.

"For how long?"

"Oh . . . it could be a while these things can't be rushed, in spite of _some_ stubborn patients insistence on trying to do so." Leslie stared very hard at Bruce over the teacup she'd raised to her lips while saying this.

Bruce quirked an eyebrow at the Doctor. Then he held his own teacup out towards her. "To outpatient therapy."

Leslie touched her cup to his. "To patients being willing to accept a doctor's advice."

. . .

Two days after the man of the house was taken away in an ambulance Madge left the apartment building hours before she was due at the club. As she shut the door behind her, a soft voice behind her made her spin around. "Are you going to see Jeannette?"

Madge met a pair of powder-blue eyes and a tiny smile that couldn't make the two little dimples she knew were there pop out. She didn't try to hide the gravel in her own voice as she turned and began to stride down the hall.

"Yep."

"Can I come with you?" The other woman asked, following behind. "I want to see Samson."  
"I'm . . . going to make a stop on the way," Madge replied.

"I don't mind."

Madge let out a long breath before muttering, "Fine."

There were a lot of other speeches she told herself she should have said, in which every other word was an expletive, but she didn't. Something in her knew it would do no good, something inside her had given up.

. . .

"Hi Jeannette."

"Madge," the woman mumbled around the tubes out of one side of her mouth. She continued as the other woman stepped into the hospital room. "How's Samson's hand?"

Madge shrugged as she sat down beside the hospital bed. "I don't know. I can ask Alice when we leave together if you want."

Madge saw Jeannette's still open right eye roll. Madge bent down and opened the plastic sack she'd carried in with her. "I got a few things to help you pass the time since I've got a little cash to blow, for now."

Madge held up the stack of fashion magazines over the rail of the bed and up toward Jeannette's swollen face.

"You're sweet . . ." the patient sputtered around the tube. Madge gave her a tired half-grin.

"Actually, Francesca told me what to get. You should know that since it's the two of you who dress me. She said she might be by later."

"Why didn't she come now?"

I think she's still sleeping off her late night with her new guy."

"Ah!" Jeanette replied with another eye roll.

. . .

"Hi Sam."

He glanced up at the door. He was bored, and she looked pretty. Besides he needed her for a few things. So he met her tiny smile with a wider one of his own.

He watched her take tiny careful steps toward him while watching the floor for cords. She was just like her, maybe less tall, less muscled, but that pretty little mouth sputtered just as much sweet poison. Oh well, he was immune to it now.

"Come over here and show me you're happy to see me."

She bowed down with puckered lips. He met them with his own. She pulled back, and gave another forced quarter-smile. "I thought about bringing flowers, but I know how you hate me wasting money."

"That was a good girl, was Francesca a good girl last night. Did she come back?"

"She . . . she came back."

"Did she bring money?"

"Oh she must have."

"What are the (censored) doing with their dough?"

"I think they're keeping it for you, for when you come home."

"They better be. I want you to make sure they do, and I want you to do something else for me."

"What?"

"One of those other (censored) called in the Bat to do this to me. I can't let them get away with that."

A chill went the young woman's body. "Are . . . are you . . . sure."

His left hand shot out, grabbed her wrist, and squeezed. She winced as he growled.

"I'm always sure."

"She smiled as her eyes stung and managed to speak without whimpering."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Find out which (censored) let him in. You'll do that baby . . . right?" He released her wrist.

Alice nodded while rubbing the sore joint with her other hand. "Uh-huh."

Samson puckered his lips and she knelt to meet them with hers.

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to.**


	7. Chapter 7

**I neither created nor own Batman, Gotham, or Dr. Leslie Thomkins. However, I have created the other characters in this story. I also created this Red Light District of Gotham City. **

Alice tiptoed into the room. Francesca was chuckling as she pointed to a page in one of the magazines Madge had brought earlier. Jeannette seemed to be trying not to laugh probably a good idea with deep bruising in her midsection and three cracked ribs. Alice tapped her knuckles against the door. Both women looked up at her.

"Hi, Jeannette, how are you doing?"

"Good as can be expected I guess." Alice barely understood the other woman speaking around her tubes. It made the younger woman feel awkward. Instead of asking herself why, Alice turned to the other visitor.

"His Francesca, what are you both looking at?"

"This" The darker woman held up the magazine. "Is that not the most disgusting outfit ever?"

Alice glanced over the glossy page graced by a model dressed in what might be called clothes. "Yes . . ."

Francesca and Jeannette both rolled their eyes as the former brought the magazine back down into Jeannette's eye range and flipped to the next page. Alice wrung her hands for a few heartbeats. How could she bring it up?

"What do you think about Batman's outfit?"

Both women's heads snapped up. Alice blushed and looked down at her toes. "Well I guess you haven't seen it recently have you Francesca? And . . . and I don't suppose you noticed . . . last time . . . you . . . saw . . . it . . . Jeannette. I should probably just ask . . . Madge . . ." For a moment, Alice stared at nothing.

"Why the sudden interest in the bat's fashions?" Francesca asked.

Alice started and looked down at the white, tiled floor. The silence was broken by Jeannette.

"Samson."

The blonde woman blushed. Francesca glanced back and forth from her red face to the Jeanette's white. The patient somehow made herself understood around the tubes.

"Get out Alice, now."

The younger woman stumbled backwards before turning and rushing into and down the hall.

. . .

Alice pawed through Madge's bottom drawer. She'd already torn through and re-tidied the bed, the closet, the bathroom, and the other drawers. Her hand was shaking when it touched a wide, long, thick, bound stack of paper. She drew the object out and stared at a sketchbook.

She shook it. A few bills fluttered out to land on the floor. Alice gathered these up and stuffed them into Samson's wallet. Then she began to flip through the book.

The young woman started at the demonic renderings of people she knew. Her eyes grew wide at the cartoons of Samson. Something twisted in her gut when she saw a drawing of herself. A thought bubble was over her head. Inside it was an image of a knight on a horse. The drawing of Samson stared back. Inside his own thought bubble was an image of a girl in chains with a dragon breathing fire at her.

Alice shut the notebook. She shot to her feet, strode out of the room, and slammed the door behind her. There were other rooms to check. Samson would probably want to look through this himself anyway.

. . .

Francesca opened her apartment door to see a white face framed by red hair.

"Madge?"

"Someone took my sketchbook."

"Alice must have it. Everyone's rooms are slightly tidier and our money's gone. She just left to pick Samson up from the hospital otherwise we would have all torn her to pieces by now."

Madge was already running down the hallway.

. . .

"Excuse me. I'm here to pick up Samson Roberts."

"All right hon, Samson Roberts' doctor said she wanted to talk to you before we release him. She's busy with other patients right now. You need to take a seat until she can chat."

"Okay, thank you."

Alice sat in an empty chair and picked up a magazine. A few minutes later the March issue of "Life in Metropolis" was torn from her hands and replaced with a red face framed by redder hair.

"Get off my sketch book."

Alice glanced down at the edge of the art book peeking out from under her skirt, but she didn't move. Madge glared at her.

"I you don't give it to me, I'll tell the Batman that Samson gave you that bruise after he was warned to be careful with how he used his good hand."

Alice's eyes went wide. She rose slightly from her chair. Madge nabbed her sketchbook and yanked it out from under the other woman.

"And if you tell Samson anything, he'll kill me. Can you imagine what Batman does to murderers?"

"He wouldn't do anything if everyone would be good and mind their own business!"

"No, I guess he wouldn't."

"Which one of you came to pick up Mr. Roberts?"

Both women's heads spun around. They met the chilly gaze of a much older woman wearing a white coat and holding a clipboard in her folded arms.

"Me," Alice replied.

"Did he give you that bruise on your wrist?"

"No." Alice tugged the sleeve of her shirt down over the dark discoloration in her skin.

"And I suppose you also aren't responsible for the chewing tobacco I caught him "enjoying" fifteen minutes after you visit."

"Yes! No! What chewing tobacco?"

"You're a bad liar. You're a worse influence on my patient, and he's an even worse influence on you. Giving him everything he asks for, because you're afraid of him, isn't love. I'd rather send him to the police station than home for both your sakes, but when I called they said you had to complain for them to do anything. Will you?"

"Of course not!"

"I was afraid of that. Since that's the case, you should know this. If he ever harms you, or any of the other girls he uses, in a way that finally gets the notice of the authorities, I will testify against him. I'll also advise the D.A., jury, and whoever else I have to, to keep him off the streets. Leaving him is the best thing you or the others can do for him at this point."

The doctor pulled a card out of her pocket and held it out to the younger woman. Alice took it with trembling fingers. She stared at it, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact with the other woman. Dr Thomkins words barely cut through the haze her earlier ones had created in the girl's mind.

"Call the first number if you or someone else requires immediate medical attention. Call the second to set up an appointment to talk about why you smuggle, lie for, and think you love a man who physically abuses you. Call the last number for someone to drive you somewhere safe."

"Are they all your numbers?"

"Yes."

Leslie Thomkins turned and walked away. It took five minutes for Alice to realize Madge and her sketch book were gone. She then asked after Samson at the desk again. Five minutes after that, he came out to the lobby and she walked out with him to the cab.

. . .

Francesca opened her door to staccato knocking for the second time that day. Once again it was Madge. This time she was sweating, red-faced, and holding her sketchbook.

"Do you have a sharp knife, a needle, and some thread I can borrow?"

180 seconds later Madge was slicing into her mattress. It would probably be safer to just burn the book, or at least a few select pages. She didn't bother asking herself why she was doing this instead. She crammed the book under the loose springs and sewed the hole up, sloppily. With the sheets pulled back over and tucked in no one would notice. Madge gave her borrowed implements back, got dressed for work and went, determined not to think about it again.

Just a few minutes after she left, a spare key unlocked the door, which then swung open. After a brief search the intruder discovered the sloppy sewing up of the mattress, ripped open the stitches, found the book, hastily flipped through it, stopped and studied one particular drawing, put the book back, and re-stitched the hole closed faster and neater than Madge had. Then the intruder vacated the room, locking the door behind.

. . .

"Hey Madge!"

Madge glanced up at Deidre.

"What?"

"My client wants me now, and I'm going to need a pick-me-up afterwards. I'll give you ten bucks to go to the hall closet and grab my stash from behind the bleach."

Madge rolled her eyes but headed towards the door. Ten bucks was ten bucks. Deidre gave the red-head's retreating figure a feral grin.

. . .

Madge shoved the last bottle of bleach to the far right. Apparently, management had just stocked up. She drew her searching hand back and scowled at the cobwebs she'd collected for her trouble. A bang made her spin around. The door had slammed shut.

With a string of curses Madge rushed to, grabbed, and tried to turn the knob. It stuck. She kept trying while kicking and even slamming herself against the wood. Management also seemed to have a thing about secure, closet doors. Under normal circumstances Madge couldn't blame them, but now she had a dozen profanities for them, along with Deidra, her "stash," and her ten bucks. Eventually Madge stopped, backed up, and sat on an overturned bucket. She glared at the piece of wood barring her from the rest of the world.

She knew how to pick locks with hair pins, but minutes ago she'd taken her hair down for a client that liked it that way. That old trick probably wouldn't have worked on the lock of this door anyway, or management would really be wasting their money and time. It at least would have been a way for her to waste her own overly abundant free time now though. Instead, she threw her shoe at the door and settled back to wait. Someone would come and open the door eventually, right?

Every time Madge heard someone walk by she shouted and banged on the door. The footsteps might pause, but they always continued on after a minute. Members of this community minded their own business, especially in this joint.

Eventually, silence spread throughout the building and crept into the closet. Her stomach felt emptier. The club had closed.

Others were going and getting something to eat, before paying their way into some building with a bed they might not have to share. She was in here. Deidre got a lot of curses thought her way.

Madge didn't even hear the footsteps or the lock picking. Maybe she had fallen asleep. If she had, the creak the hinges made as the door swung open jolted her awake. In the doorway stood a tall, imposing figure slightly darker than the surrounding shadows.

"Bat!"

The cry was more surprised joy than girlish squeal. At least, Madge told herself so. The woman didn't even try to explain to herself why ran right into him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and laid her head against his chest. He didn't reciprocate.

"How long were you in there?"

"Eh," She shrugged while pulling away, "I walked in less than an hour before closing time."

"Do you know who locked you in?"

"Deidre. That (censored). She was probably high enough to think she could rifle through my purse for cash if I were indisposed.

"Was she correct?"

"Nope," Madge grinned while sticking her hand down the front of her dress. She brought out a wad of bills. 'This is where I keep it when I can."

Batman turned his gaze from her to the door, closing and relocking it while he spoke. "I'll walk you back."

"It's almost daylight, Bat."

"I won't walk beside you, but I'll be nearby."

"You worry too much, Bat."

Madge went out the door with her purse. Everything inside it had been torn through. She'd reorganize it sometime after she woke up that afternoon, maybe.

Every now and then Madge studied the surrounding shadows to see if she could spy her escort. She couldn't, but he was there. She knew it.

The woman went into the apartment and laid a wad of bills next to the head of a passed out Samson. Apparently he had missed his stash of brandy during his hospital stay.

As she walked down the upstairs hall she went by an open door. A feminine voice called out of it. "Where've you been Madge?"

"You don't want to know."

If she could have seen the other woman's smile, Madge would have known her questioner already knew.

. . .

A young Lieutenant of the South Side Cartel sat at the poker table, attempting to be careful not to blow too much, but not quite succeeding. He could get more here and there. Just once he wanted to score big, just once.

"Mr. Russo!"

He looked up at the older, shorter, less important man holding a phone receiver.

"Call for you. It's supposed to be important."

Placing his cards face down Russo rose from his seat and went to the phone sitting on the countertop holding it to his ear he said his name and waited. A familiar voice greeted him.

"How would you like to kill the Bat?"

A wide, cold grin spread over his face.

**Reviews are greatly appreciated and often responded to.**

**Thanks again to Anonymous Rex for the detailed and encouraging reviews.**

**Special thanks to gordios79 for answering a question I had while writing this chapter. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**I neither own nor created Gotham, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Alfred Pennyworth, or Dr. Leslie Thomkins. I did create the other characters in this chapter and The Red Light District. **

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

As Madge trudged up the stone steps of the apartment building towards the door, it flew open. She stopped and looked up. Samson was standing in the doorway. He probably would have crossed his arms if it wouldn't have bumped his bandaged hand. Madge let out a long sigh.

"What do you want?"

"Before you come in tonight, you have to do a few favors for some friends of mine."

He used his chin to gesture at something behind her. Madge turned. A long, black sedan was parked across the street. She groaned. After going back down the stairs, she strode across the street while muttering under her breath when she thought she was out of Samson's hearing range. Her smile-mask was in place as she approached the vehicle.

A passenger door opened. She climbed over the person holding it open to sit between two men. The door shut. A mechanical ca-chunk told her the doors had locked, but she wasn't worried.

She didn't get nervous when they took her to a one room building near the docks. She became slightly apprehensive when they had her go down a trap door in the floor there. She didn't panic much further when the ropes came out and they tied her in a chair. She only felt fear when one of them bent over to look her in the face and said, "Now tell us about the Bat."

. . .

The arson seemed to have accomplished nothing except destroying a building and making nineteen people homeless. Yet, there were indications of it being the work of the South Side Cartel. If it was an act of retribution, why were its effects so widespread? If it was a warning, who had been warned?

There were things Batman hated, but understood, like greed. There were things he didn't understand, but believed essential to humanity's survival, like mercy. Dangerous things he didn't understand made him uneasy.

The fire had accomplished bringing him there, but no one had made an attempt on him. When the red, white, and blue lights had approached he'd disappeared into the shadows. When the policemen and ambulance workers started asking the victims questions, he left.

The sunrise troubled him further. The women of the Red Light District would be inside by now, all who made it back at least. The fire had coincided with the time they left work.

He went there anyway, darting from shadow to shadow glancing down into the streets and alleyways. He found one girl still lying where someone had left her. Ever since he'd escorted Madge to her apartment he'd kept a long, folded piece of material in his belt. He wrapped the woman in it and carried her to his car. There he contacted Alfred, who would contact Leslie.

Batman drove the victim to an area near the emergency room not covered by security cameras. Leslie was there with a hospital gown. He left the victim with her and went underground where bats belonged in the day. Then he went back to the mansion and fell asleep cursing the fact there was only one of him while wondering if that fact was in any way connected to the arson.

. . .

Batman stood at his usual spot in the Red Light district. Nothing had happened to prevent him being there that night. However, that didn't make him feel less disturbed by what had happened the night before.

A dot of red light flickered in a familiar place. He shot his grappling gun to the top of the apartment building and swung over. Deidre switched off the lighter.

Batman gazed at her in silence. The woman's smirked. "Don't you want to know why I'm not Madge?"

He stood outside of her reach, watching her hands. She was holding something much smaller than a gun in one of them. Her smirk fell into a scowl as she held it out toward him.

"Someone gave me fifty bucks to give you this." The light from the bedroom revealed a folded slip of paper between her fingers. He took it, and then watched her walk back inside grumbling to herself.

She was one of the few residents of the area who hadn't cried over him when they thought he was dead. That didn't surprise him. Most substance abusers hated him more than the mobs. He'd caused a massive spike in the price of their "stuff."

Batman shot his grappling gun at a nearby building and vanished into its shadows. When he'd returned to his usual perch, he read the note. Afterwards, he crumpled the scrap of paper.

. . .

Batman observed the building from another rooftop. No skylight. He crept up to and circled it. He found a crack in one wall. Multiple men inside were complaining he hadn't shown up yet.

There were only two windows. Each were eight feet off the ground and shorter in length than his shoulder width. He stuck a grappling hook into the sill and pulled himself up to look in each. The area of the room he could see was bare except for a man sitting in a chair pulled up to a table. He had a few cards in his hand. From the other window he could only see the same man from the opposite side.

Batman's jaw tightened as he clamped down on the sense of urgency clawing at his nerves. The sky would turn grey in minutes. He had to go through the main entryway. Batman hated using front doors when he wasn't expected.

The voices on the other side sounded even more frustrated. He knelt down and rolled smoke pellets under the door. Then he leaned his shoulder against it and tensed. A hissing sound was followed by shouts. One caught his attention.

"We'll shoot her if you don't show yourself right now, Bat!"

He shoved the door open. There were five men. No hostage was in sight.

He dropped and rolled as gunshots echoed above him. Then he stopped and swept the legs out from under the first two men. He caught one man as he fell and broke the shooter's grip on his gun. Then he stepped on the wrist of the other man's gun hand as he stood up while tossing the table at the last three.

As the table fell back to the floor he threw batarangs at the hands of two shooters in the best position to aim. Then he threw himself at the last mobster holding a weapon. He grabbed the man and twisted his arm until he released the gun. Then he pinned the gunman to the wall. The man glared at him, coughing. Batman waited until his opponent's eyes slid shut. When the man slumped, Batman lowered him to the floor. Then he waited until the smoke dissipated before removing his gas mask.

Batman glanced around, fully taking in the room for the first time. There was a rug on the floor. He kicked it aside. A trap door was beneath it. He clamped down on the sense of urgency again. He closed the door and moved a chair and the table in front of it. Then he pulled the trap door open.

. . .

The basement was almost pitch-black. A few rays of light filtered through holes in the wooden boards. They trickled down to the concrete floor beneath her feet, the way the blood had down her face. The gag had been inside her mouth so long, she began trying to remember what things other than cloth tasted like to fight the boredom. Above her head, the voices of her interrogators had become low monotones. They were bored too.

Suddenly, there was a sound like air leaking from a balloon. The light changed from warm yellow to cold grey as the mutterings became shouts. The shouts turned into gunshots, bodies crashing onto the floorboards, and furniture being tossed around, followed by silence. The gray light turned yellow again. After a few minutes, during which there were some soft sounds of furniture being moved, the hinges of the trap door squeaked. Light fell over the steps leading to the floor. Batman flowed down them like a tall, dark shadow and looked at her.

Madge looked at him with her good eye. One was bruised shut. Dried blood ran down her cheek and chin from a cut on her eyebrow, and another on her bottom lip. There were bruises on both her cheeks.

He strode over to her while removing a finger-length knife from his belt. Then he knelt down and cut the gag, before slipping it off and out of her mouth. She smiled at him.

"How'd I know you'd show up?"

He cut the ropes that bound her wrists to the back of the chair, as he answered. "I don't know . . . considering how late I am." She flexed her hands as she felt the circulation return to them.

"What . . . this? I've had dates worse than this."

"You aren't making me feel better. Where do you hurt the most?"

"Eye, mouth, cheeks . . . used to be my wrists and ankles, but they went numb a while back."

"No pains in your chest or abdomen?"

"They didn't hit me there. They weren't really trying, just waiting for you to show up I think. Bet they're wishing you hadn't right now."

"They'll be unconscious for at least fifteen minutes."

He bent down and cut the ropes that held her legs to those of the chair. She rose to her feet and immediately fell over. He shot up and caught her by the arm, stepped around to her side, and picked her up. She smiled again.

"You're still a perfect gentleman."

"You need to rub the life back into your wrists and feet before trying to stand on your own. I'll guard the room upstairs while you do."

"Guess I can't convince you to rub them for me, huh?"

He put her down in the chair and strode to the stairs without replying. She sighed and began to do as he said. He'd raced halfway up the steps when they heard the door slamming open and furniture being shoved aside.

Madge's head snapped up. Batman's hand went to his belt and gripped a batarang. He'd only pulled it halfway free when the shots rang out. A volley of slugs cut holes in the wood floor above his head. One lodged itself into the step his right foot rested on, less than an inch from the toe of his boot.

Madge's good eye widened. Batman crept back down the steps, making no more noise than a cat. A few creaking floorboards later and the young mob lieutenant appeared above him. He was holding a machine gun. A smirk spread over his face.

"So, you're still in one piece down there. How'd I miss you?"

A woman with olive colored skin and ink-black hair, wearing a long green dress and low heels joined him. A smirk much like the gunman's own came over her face. Sparks of triumph lit her eyes.

"Didn't I say he'd come for her?"

A demon-like shriek echoed through the basement. The grins on the captors' faces only grew at the sound. "Francesca you (Censored)! I'll kill you for this!"

Madge marched into the pool of light at the bottom of the stairs, carrying her high heeled shoes in one hand. The way she carried them made both men think she was going to throw them at the other woman.

Francesca reached up and massaged the mob lieutenant's shoulder. "You'd have to get past the guns of Roberto's men, as well as his own. I think that will become difficult after he kills_ your_ man."

"Every (censored) in the entire district will be after you, you (censored) (censored) traitor! Do you really think Roberto's going to keep you?! Every man other than the Bat abandons us after we meet their needs!"

"Oh I think Roberto's needs will become recurrent. Won't they lover?"

"Sure baby, I'm just full of needs."

Batman looked up at Roberto and tilted his head in Madge's direction. "Let her go. She's of no more use to you."

"No, I don't think so. She's a loose end and, even after killing the Bat, the boss won't let me be his right hand man if I leave loose ends."

"You hear that (censored)! You're as much fish food as me and the Bat!"

The gangster's eyebrows rose. "Wow, Bat, your girl sounds as loyal to you as mine is to me." He wrapped his arm around Francesca. "She really knew what she was talking about, my girl." He kissed Francesca's cheek without lowering the gun. He'd trained it on Batman's face. The vigilante didn't look away from the barrel as he replied.

"Samson might pay you for Madge's return. She's worth a lot to him."

"I already paid Samson for your girl and mine. A good deal when being second in command of the South Side Cartel is on the table."

"You wasted your money."

Francesca's brows knit together. One of the mobster's eyebrows arched. "Really?"

"All she had to do was pretend to be kidnapped," Batman nodded to Francesca, "and I would have done exactly the same."

The olive skin of Francesca's face began to turn white. Her eyes shone dangerously as they bored into the Bat. A grin broke over Madge's face.

"That's right (censored)! You've betrayed the only man who ever cared about all of us!"

The mobster chuckled and took his eyes off the Bat to glance at her.

"That not upset you, Red? Knowing you aren't so special?"

Madge's fists clenched a little tighter, but she didn't look away from Roberto's gaze until Batman spoke.

"What makes you say that?"

Madge started. She and the other two stared at the vigilante. The mobster's brows furrowed.

"You're beginning to confuse me, Bat."

"Someone else might have turned on me. You paid for the woman who held her tongue."

Francesca felt Roberto's muscles tense beneath her touch. She began to back away from him. Her voice came out in a whisper. _"Kill him. Kill him now!"_

The Batman turned his gaze from the man to the woman. "Second-in-commands don't trust anyone, Francesca. If you don't get far enough soon enough, he'll kill you."

The mobster pulled the trigger. Gunshots echoed through the building. Bullets sank into the black chest plate of the Bat-suit. Madge screamed as The Dark Knight collapsed onto the stairs.

The mobster smiled at the splayed form. He aimed the gun at Madge. She stared up into its barrel. His smile widened, and then fell as a click echoed behind his back.

He turned. Francesca had grabbed a colt off one of the men on the floor. Her hands were trembling, but she was aiming the gun well enough to make Roberto's eyes widen. Tears spilled down her face as she spoke.

"You wouldn't, right baby? You and I, we're rising up the ladder together, both of us."

Roberto lowered the machine gun to the floor as he answered. "Of course baby." He plastered a terrified smile onto his face while walking towards her one step at a time with raised hands and open arms. "I would never hurt you."

She gazed at him eyes wide, breath short, tears and sweat rolling down her face. He smiled wider. "Come on lover, put the gun down. It's me. We did good tonight. You did good tonight. We should celebrate."

She lowered the gun. With a movement of his arm a pistol slipped out of Roberto's sleeve and into his hand. A bang filled Francesca's ears as pain radiated through her chest. She raised her gun and shot back. For a moment the air was filled with the blasts of gunshots. Then they both stared at each other, bleeding.

He dove at her. She squeezed the trigger again. Nothing happened. He wrapped his hands around her throat.

"You (censored) I was this close! This close to having it all! You stupid (Cesored)! I should have done this on my own! I'll take you with me! I'll . . .!"

A pair of bright, red pumps smashed into his temple. Roberto Russo fell over and bled out of the six holes in his chest and abdomen. Madge raised the shoes again to swing them at Francesca and paused.

Francesca had crumpled to the floor. Scarlet soaked through the green of her dress. Her wide, dark eyes gazed up at Madge as if she was begging for help. Madge looked down and nearly spat on the other woman.

"Go to Hell!"

"I think . . . I am. I'm sorry . . . Madge. You . . . were right. I just . . . wanted out . . . so bad. I thought he . . . loved me . . . like the Bat . . . loved you."

Madge's scowl melted away. She lowered the shoes. Francesca went on as her voice got weaker.

"If he comes back . . . like he did before . . . tell him . . . I'm sorry."

The light went out of Francesca's eyes. Her struggled breathing ceased. Madge stared for another minute.

Then she turned, walked back down the steps, and sat at the Bat's side. He seemed as still as those she'd left. She whispered down at his face and her eyes filled.

_"Please. Come back like before. Please . . . , please . . ."_

Tears ran down her face as she ran her fingers through her hair. She yanked a few strands while gritting her teeth.

"What am I gonna do? I can't call an ambulance or the cops . . . You said it was even more important in death than life . . ."

Anger burned through her as she stared at the still face below the dark cowl.

"You (censored) don't you dare die now! I didn't take all this (censored) for you, so you could get blown to oblivion!"

She slapped his bare jaw, then drew back and swept her hand forward again. Something shot up and grabbed her wrist. She froze.

He gazed at her out of the corner of his eye. Then he let her go and pushed himself up, wincing. "When I take one or more bullets to the chest, you have permission to slap me."

"You . . . you . . . (censored)! Can you really not die?!"

He stood up. "I'll die someday. I just haven't yet." He looked up toward the top of the stairs. Madge didn't bother to follow his gaze.

"They killed each other."

He winced again. Then he slipped up the steps. She followed behind. He caught sight of the bodies, sprinted over, knelt down, and checked their vitals before drawing back and staring for a long moment, still on his knees. Madge crept up behind him.

"Wasn't this . . . the plan?"

"Unfortunately . . . I didn't have time to come up with a better one. I'd hoped they'd only wound each other."

"She wanted me to tell you, she was sorry."

His shoulders slumped. He kept gazing down at the dead woman. Madge stared at him just as intently. "You can't blame yourself for this. She had him shoot you."

The Bat reached out and closed Francesa's eyes. Then he turned and closed Roberto's. Then he picked up both their guns and looked up at Madge.

"You're certain you don't need immediate medical attention?"

"I feel like (censored) but I'm not as bad off as that, or them."

He rose to his feet, slowly. "Watch the door." He drew a long bag from a pouch in his belt, the way magicians pull impossibly long scarves from their sleeves. He began to move from man to man checking their vitals, rifling their pockets, taking out concealed guns and knives, and throwing them into the bag.

Madge glanced back and forth from the street to him watching the process. Finally, Batman knelt over the machine gun Roberto had dropped. She wondered what he'd do with it. It was about twice the size of the bag. Her eyes widened as he took a glass vial from his belt. She forgot to watch the door as he poured its contents over the weapon's firing mechanism. The metal sizzled and melted.

"You really do hate guns don't you?"

He rose to his feet as if he was being careful not to use too many muscles doing so. He gestured even more carefully around the room. "Especially after nights like these."

Madge glanced around. She didn't say a word. He moved over to her side, took her by the arm with the hand not holding the bag, and stepped out with her, closing the door behind them.

"Let's go."

**This chapter took much longer to complete than I thought it would, so I apologize for the wait. I wanted it to be right and a few things came up in my real life and that of the person I have read my stories before I post them. **

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They also let me know what I did right, so I can do more of it and what I did wrong, so I can fix it.** **Much thanks to my usual reviewers Anonymous Rex and gordios79. **


	9. Chapter 9

**I neither own nor created Gotham, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Alfred Pennyworth, or Dr. Leslie Thomkins. I did create the other characters in this chapter and The Red Light District. **

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

Batman led Madge to his car. He reached up to his belt. The engine roared. The doors and trunk opened. Batman threw the bag into the trunk, slammed it shut, and sat in the driver's seat. Madge slipped into the passenger side. This time there was an armrest between her and the man she was taking a ride with.

Instead of seat belts, two parts of a harness were attached to either side of the chair. They looked like those you saw a pilot use to strap themselves into their planes on television. Madge glanced around at the rest of the inside decor.

"Nice replacement for the one that exploded."

"Buckle up."

When she'd snapped both pieces the halves of the buckles of the harness together, he started the car. The vehicle shot down what should have been a dead end. Madge dug her fingernails into the seat of her chair as her eyes widened.

With a spin of the steering wheel the car turned off into an unused sewer drain. Batman flicked two switches on the dashboard. The headlights turned off.

A screen on the dashboard lit up. A display of some kind of complicated grid or map appeared on the screen. Madge decided to not even attempt to figure it out.

"Where we going, Bat?"

"Someplace safe."

"Ah. Your place?"

"No."

"Oh. Where?"

"A friend's."

"Who?"

"Someone I trust."

Madge sighed. Madge couldn't really know how long they drove in the dark. Even if she's had a watch, she wouldn't have been able to read it in the dim green glow of the screen's display. A dot flashed on the screen while "boop" sounds filled the car interior. Then the car stopped.

Both the driver and passenger doors popped open. A few lights in the car's interior turned on illuminating a concrete floor. Other than their soft luminance, the room was as dark as the inside of a box without air holes.

Batman stepped out of the car. Madge waited for him to appear outside her door before she got out herself. He turned and waved his hand in the air before him. Madge thought he was going to say some secret password with the gesture, but instead his hand seemed to close around something and pull.

Batman let his hand drop to his side. He stood like a statue. Madge jumped when the wall in front of them slid aside. A figure stood silhouetted against a backdrop of warm, yellow light that overwhelmed her eyes.

Batman stepped past the figure into the room beyond. After a few seconds, Madge did to. She continued to blink until her surroundings were no longer blindingly bright. Then she turned to the person who's let them in. She blinked again.

"You?"

"Me. You're one of the girls who visited Jeannette Peterson."

"And you're a doctor."

"Yes, I am. What happened to you tonight?"

Madge turned her widened eyes away and shrugged.

"Some mobsters roughed me up. It happens."

"I'm sure it does. Where do you feel pain?"

"Now I see where Bat gets his bedside manners."

"This will go faster if you answer my questions."

Madge gave the older woman a mild glare and blew out a long breath before replying. "They tied my hands and legs real tight. Then they hit me in the face for awhile. So, yes, all that hurts."

The older woman nodded as she took hold of Madge's forearms and examined her wrists.

"You have swelling, bruising, and raw places where the ropes cut into your skin. Did they tie your ankles as tightly as your wrists?"

"Nope."

"They usually don't. I'll go break out the iodine." Leslie looked up and met Batman's gaze. "You'll accompany me while I do so."

"I'll stay with her."

"No, you won't."

Madge's eyes widened. Her attention turned from the Doctor to the Dark Knight. The Batman's jaw briefly clenched before he followed the older woman. Madge's jaw dropped as he went through the door ahead of the doctor who closed it behind them both.

_Someone was the boss of Batman?_

. . .

"Take it off."

"The victim needs . . ."

"I've done my initial examination of her. Now I need to examine you. Those are bullet indentations in your vest. Take. It. Off."

He did. He even pulled off the undershirt beneath without her asking. The pale skin he revealed was almost covered in deep black and purple bruises. Leslie's eyes narrowed at the sight. Her jaw clenched, and the word she spoke came out as a hiss.

_"Bruce."_

"Never call me that in mask."

She bowed her head, shook it, and pointed at something in a corner of the storage space.

"Lay down on that cot and stay there until I get back."

. . .

Madge looked up as the doctor reappeared in the doorway with a tray, kicking the door shut behind her.

"Where's the Bat?"

"I made him lie down."

Madge's eyes widened again. "What have you got on him?"

Leslie answered while holding a cotton swab to the mouth of an upside down iodine bottle.

"That's privileged."

**Reviews are greatly appreciated and often responded to. They help me know what I did right, so I can do more of it and what I did wrong, so I can fix it.**


	10. Chapter 10

**I neither own nor created Gotham, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Alfred Pennyworth, or Dr. Leslie Thomkins. I did create Madge and the other characters in The Red Light District. **

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained. **

**Gentle readers, I am sorry I left you without an update so long. There was a death in my family. I took a log car trip that lasted over two weeks in order to travel to the memorial service and back. Since then I have been trying to catch up on a plethora of things including updating me fanfiction stories. I hope this chapter was worth the wait. **

Instead of walking straight towards her patient with the tray of medical supplies, Leslie turned and headed up a few stairs that led to a door. There she expertly turned the knob while balancing the tray. She pushed the door open and turned back to her patient.

"Follow me upstairs, the light's better there."

"Why would you trust me in your house?"

"I can get in touch with Batman."

"You have me there."

. . .

Patient and Physician sat at the latter's kitchen table with the overhead lights illuminating the former's injuries. Dr. Leslie Thomkins disinfected the cuts, scrapes, and places rubbed raw. She noted the younger woman only winced and made faces when the iodine touched the most sensitive areas. Madge' lack of reaction disturbed more than impressed her. Leslie moved from treating the right wrist to treating the left. Her patient stirred in her seat.

"Hey doc?"

"Yes."

"Is Bat, uh, you know, special?"

"Explain what you mean by 'special'."

"I mean . . . well . . . He's survived stuff you wouldn't think someone could."

"Praise the almighty for that."

"Does he . . . have a deal with somebody in charge upstairs or down?"

"Not that I know of."

"Oh."

Leslie looked up from her work and made eye-contact with her patient. She broke it and went back to her task before speaking again.

"If I were you, I'd be more concerned about my future than someone else's secrets."

"Why? I'll probably just go back to the old neighborhood and get picked up by somebody else."

"Is that what you want?"

Madge shrugged. "It's how I survive."

"You could say that. You could also say it's how you're being slowly killed."

The patient scowled at her doctor. "Do you have a lecture you want to spew on me?"

"More like an offer to make. If you can think of and then tell me about any other interest or skill you have, I'll try to find you a way to live off it."

"What's in it for you?"

"I'm a doctor. I don't like seeing people in unhealthy situations." Madge snorted. Dr. Thomkins met her gaze and continued. "If I can do the same for all the ladies in your old neighborhood, maybe our mutual friend won't have to risk his life to save theirs so often."

Madge stiffened beneath Leslie's touch. After half a minute, the doctor continued. "So, are you at all interested?"

Silence lengthened between the two. Dr. Thomkins finished disinfecting the cuts, put down and organized her supplies, turned back to her patient, and continued to wait for an answer. After another minute, the other woman spoke.

"I'll let you know in the morning."

Leslie rose from her chair. Madge looked up.

"Hey doc, is he . . . hurt?"

"That's privileged."

. . .

Bruce Wayne's godmother stood over her most and least favorite patient. She hadn't found any signs of a concussion, so she knew she didn't have any reason to stay with him as his physician. Her heart rebelled with a desire to stay with her godson. She knew him well enough to know he wouldn't see the need for that, though, or admit it if he did. So, she acted the part of his physician.

"The pain reliever should kick in soon. I'll contact Alfred and let him know you'll be staying here. I don't suppose you'll listen if I ask you to not move around much for a few days?"

"Probably not."

"That's what I expected."

Leslie began to leave. The voice of her godson stopped her.

"How was she?"

"I think she's been through worse. What's already been done to her hasn't destroyed her, yet. We can try to help her further if she lets us, but she has to let us, Bruce. You can't always be there for people. The best thing you can do for them is teach them to take care of themselves."

"I know. You've been telling me so for fifteen years."

"And I'm still not convinced it's sunk in."

. . .

Leslie stepped back into the kitchen where she'd left Madge eating some leftovers from her fridge and holding a bag of frozen peas to her swollen eye. She noted the younger woman had finished her meal. The doctor headed toward the door opposite to the one she'd entered through.

"I'll show you to the guest room."

"I can sleep on the couch."

"You'll sleep in the guest room." Leslie led her to the same room Bruce had slept in for most of a day just a week before. "There's an adjoining bathroom with unopened packages of toiletries. Don't lock the door when I step out. I'll be right back in after I get something."

Madge had just removed a toothbrush from its package when she heard the bedroom door open. She peeked out to see Dr, Thomkins tossing a flannel nightgown onto the bedspread.

"It's old-fashioned, but it should fit you."

As Leslie turned to leave again, Madge stepped out of the bathroom and called after her.

"Hey Doc?"

Leslie turned back. "Do you need something else?"

"No, I think you've got everything covered. I was just wondering, are you the one who taught the Bat to be . . . so . . ."

"Selfless?"

"Yeah that works."

"I've received blame for it before."

"Oh, that explains a lot."

"I'm taking tomorrow off. I'll see you when you've rested."

"Sure, thanks for . . . everything."

"Goodnight Miss Robertson."

After the door closed Madge stared at it for a few minutes.

"No one's called me that in a long time."

. . .

The sounds of Leslie preparing breakfast, or at least the first meal she or her guests ate that day, helped Madge find her way back to the kitchen. Leslie said good afternoon. Her guest mumbled something and took her seat. Dr. Thomkins asked her guest how she liked her eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee. Madge gave her one word answers. Both women ate in silence until the younger woman broke it.

"Did you already take the Bat his?"

"He ate first and already left. He asked me to reassure you he was fine, and told me to update him on your condition. Don't believe the first part for a microsecond."

"What about the second?"

"Don't not believe it for a microsecond."

There was another two minutes of silence before Madge spoke again.

"I don't want him . . . I don't want whatever _can _happen to him to happen, because of me. But I've been doing this since . . . well, I never finished high school."

"What did you do for fun during your childhood?"

Madge shrugged. "I took an art class. The teacher kept saying I was good."

"Do you still create art?"

Madge shrugged again. "I draw."

Leslie got up from the table, left the room, and came back with a piece of paper and a sharpened #2 pencil. "Draw something for me."

"Like what?"  
"Whatever you want."

"With one good eye?"

"Just do what you can."

Madge picked up the pencil, placed one hand on the paper, leaned in, and with swift movements put an image on the page. She craned her neck one way or the other on occasion compensating for having an eye bruised shut. Leslie watched while sipping her tea. Fifteen minutes later, Madge leaned back and sighed. She dropped the pencil and folded her graphite-smudged fingers together.

Leslie reached over and pulled the paper to herself. She turned it around and raised an eyebrow. She was looking at herself.

The dimensions of her features had been tweaked in a cartoon style, but it was clearly her. She looked stern. One brow was lowered and the other raised. Her hands were folded on the table before her. Her eyes glinted with intelligence, interest, suspicion? Yet, in obvious and comical contrast, a shining halo appeared above her head. Leslie felt a corner of her mouth quirk up before she straightened it out again.

"This is good, and I'm not just saying that because it's an obvious flattery of me. You have a remarkable talent and unique style."

"Seriously?"

"I am almost always serious. I most certainly am now. I need to talk to a few people. In the mean time, my housekeeper is due for a vacation. If you live here, you'll participate in the household upkeep. Can you do that?"

"You might want to see my apartment before putting me in charge of your house's hygiene."

"I can have someone give you a few instructions in that regard, if you'll be a willing student."

Madge looked down are her darkened fingertips.

"You really think you could get me a job drawing?"

"I can look into it."

"But succeeding would mean you lose a free housekeeper."

"Miss Robertson."

Madge looked up and met the woman's ice-blue eyes. "You can walk out of this door and go back to someone you know will take advantage of you, or you can stay and see if I do."

"I can leave whenever I want?"

"As long as all you take with you is what you came with and what I give you to treat your injuries."

"Like you'd ever let me leave with just that."

After a minute of staring at the older woman, Madge shrugged her shoulders. "I'll give it a try."

. . .

Two men stood staring at the body of their past associate. One man's face was lax in mild pity. The other man's expression was tight in disgust. The former pulled the sheet back over the cold face.

"Roberto shouldn't have tried it on his own."

"He shouldn't have trusted that (censored)."

"He was right about one thing though." The other man said while squinting at the ceiling. "The Batman did come for the broad."

"What are you thinking, boss?"

The "boss" took a draw on his cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke before answering. Technically you weren't supposed to smoke in the Gotham morgue, but no one ever seemed to tell this particular smoker "no." Even his enemies preferred to give him their refusals through strong "messages" rather than face to face. He liked to give his responses to them a lot of thought.

"The plan does call for bait."

"He's already got the one that was special to him."

"They're all 'special' to him." The boss turned toward the door and the other man followed listening as his employer continued. "If it's not asking too much of the men, see if they can hang out around that neighborhood and pick up a girl with a real sympathetic look. This time none of our boys will be anywhere near the Bat or the broad when he comes for her."

"How much are we paying this out-of-towner?"

The boss turned on his subordinate with a deep scowl.

"He's the best, Marco.

Marco looked down at the floor. The other man let the scowl drop, turned, and began to walk toward the door again. "But he gave us a special deal. Our description of the target interested him."

"How long before he arrives, boss?"

"Long enough for you to get acquire suitable bait to lure the game to the hunter."

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They tell me what I did right so I can do more of it and what I did wrong so I can fix it. ****J**


	11. Chapter 11

**I don't own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, or Lucius Fox. I did create Madge.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

The target was partying on his yacht a good swim from shore. The guy had a martini in one hand while the other rested on the blonde at his side. The sniper hoped she'd move. It'd be a shame if to get blood and grey matter on that white bikini top of hers.

The choppy waters and surrounding partiers made the shot slightly more interesting. It was easy enough he wouldn't brag about it to his competitors and hard enough he wouldn't be embarrassed for them to know it was his work. Still, he'd taken this job for the money.

As he set up his equipment the assassin pondered what the target could have done to his client to make reading his obituary worth 1.2 mil. Had the guy killed someone close to the client's heart in a drunk driving accident? Or maybe he'd been overly social with their wife, girlfriend, or little girl. Could his demise mean more monetary gain for the client than 1.2 mil? It didn't really matter.

What mattered was that it meant 1.2 mil to him, and he could make a slightly interesting shot out of the work. Besides, doing this one for the cash meant he could take a more challenging job afterwards. The sniper sighed as he knelt behind his rifle. He hoped his business in Gotham would prove more interesting.

. . .

"You don't need to say it, Lucius."

Fox's eyes took in the shadow-like discoloration beneath the eyes, the extra pallor of the already pale complexion, and the rigidness in the younger man's posture that indicated to relax could also mean to collapse. He'd known something was wrong when Bruce was a few minutes late to their meetings in the forgotten rooms stories beneath Wayne Tower. Now he wished his employer hadn't come in at all.

"I'll say it anyway. You look like a man who put on his best suit after escaping from an ambulance."

"Leslie cleared me to meet with you today."

"You mean you told her you were meeting with me, and she didn't find it necessary to slip a syringe into your neck to stop you."

"Yes."

"I'll surrender to her professional judgment and your stubbornness, for now."

Bruce strode to the table, sat down in a chair across from the standing Lucius, and looked at the folders lined up in front of him.

"How's 'Escape Route' coming?"

Lucius sat down on the other side of the table and flipped aside the cover of the folder directly in front of his employer. He then slid its first page over so it would lie opposite the second. Both were fact sheets on apartment buildings a few blocks from each other. Several like papers were beneath the second.

"We've obtained a number of buildings, but I'm still in the process of hiring personnel to repair and update them."

"We can't wait until they're ready. We need a temporary shelter that can be used sooner."

Lucius straightened. He tried to meet the pair of grey eyes still studying the papers he'd presented to them. When the other man didn't look up, Fox addressed the furrowed brow. "May I ask where you suggest I look for one of those?"

"I want you to contact Evelyn Ainsley."

Lucius's brows rose. His head tilted to one side. "Ev, why?"

"Ainsley Manor is the best option."

"There's Wayne Manor."

"I can't be that closely connected to this."

"You're already connected through the rest of us, including Mrs. Ainsley if she agrees to be a part of it. Besides, you're still technically . . ."

"I can't be that_ strongly _connected to this."

Lucius sighed. "I'll call Evelyn. The last time she contacted us was a postcard from Vienna, but she may be state-side now."

Bruce nodded.

"How's the power situation in the buildings we've acquired?"

Both men continued discussing details of "Escape Route" and other plans in motion or soon to be. Around 6:30 p.m. Bruce rose from the table. His sluggish movements and the two pain pills he took with the meal waiting for both men in the nearby fridge made Lucius berate himself inwardly for not bringing the meeting to a close sooner. The business man sighed. After listening to the one he was giving himself in his own head, he was going to get another lecture from Leslie.

. . .

Dr. Thomkins buttered the piece of toast beside Madge who was staring at the eggs frying in the skillet in front of her. Meanwhile the younger woman continued to shovel oatmeal into her mouth. The mushy grain seemed to be a staple in this house of refuge. The guest started when her hostess spoke.

"I'm going out to do a few errands. After completing them I'll work tonight. It's a twelve hour shift. When I get back, I'll head straight to my room and sleep the entire day."

"So, I'll have to entertain myself, huh?"

"For a few hours, my friend is coming at 10 A.M to show you how to keep this household clean while you stay in it."

"She'll teach me how to be a nice little housewife, huh?"

Madge concentrated on removing an egg from the pan and slid it onto her doctor's plate. So, she didn't see Leslie raise her brows at her. "How you take advantage of the lessons after you leave here is your choice to make."

"How do I know if whoever shows up at the door is this friend of yours?"

"Arriving at exactly 10 O-clock, knowing who I and you are, along with why they're here are all good signs of that."

"I don't get any more details?"

"My friend is my age and gives me a look that gets on my nerves if I'm late for anything." Leslie stuffed the last bite of toast in her mouth, rinsed her hands at the sink, dried them on a nearby towel, turned and strode toward the door. Madge called after her retreating figure.

"Sounds like a fun gal."

Leslie smiled. Madge didn't notice. She was busy scraping out the last spoonful of oatmeal from her bowl before she started eating her eggs.

. . .

He watched the police cars continue to pass by on the street below his hotel suite's window. He took another sip of brandy, swallowed, and popped another shrimp into his mouth. The important thing to remember about not being caught was to not run.

Looking like the exact opposite of a man who should be getting away allowed one to stay without repercussions. After the shrimp was swallowed he chuckled to himself at the thought of a poor sap who suddenly left the city from a place a few minutes travel from where he took the shot. Such an innocent's day could be ruined explaining himself to the authorities. He on the other hand would enjoy a fabulous night.

At an appropriate moment he'd make sure the money had been wired to his account. In the mean time he'd take advantage of the accommodations, cuisine, and companionship this city could offer. When his business here had been properly reported in the news he'd purchase a copy to add the article to his portfolio, book comfortable transport to Gotham, and stroll out of Dodge.

. . .

The second hand ticked upwards to aim itself at the twelve. At the same moment, the small hand moved to point to the ten. The doorbell rang.

The sound was like a bell of Notre Dame being rung somewhere in the attic. She'd never heard the sound before, so Madge jumped when it shattered the silence. Then she scowled at the stray, purposeless, pencil mark she'd made across her sketch.

She rose from the couch, stalked to the door, peeked out through its glass pane, and froze. Without undoing the chain lock, she slid the door open enough to peek out. There was what she thought she'd seen through the patterned glass.

A man stood on the porch, a six-foot-something tall man. He had precisely combed and cut iron grey hair, an equally neat moustache, shoes that fairly glowed with polish, and a suit that looked like it was still on a mannequin. He was even wearing a chauffeur hat, which he removed with a hand covered in a stark white glove. He bowed slightly at the waist.

"Good morning Miss, Alfred Pennyworth at your service."

. . .

In the southern end of Gotham, Lenny "Nails" sat at a diner with "Stu the Undertaker." Stuart Russo, ten years Lenny's senior, had been known as "Stu the Sour" until he'd gained his reputation for prompt, untraceable body disposal. Both men were eating a late breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and black coffee in the only booth that didn't face a window.

Lenny stabbed a strip of bacon with his fork and lifted it from his plate. He stared at the mouthful as if contemplating its merits. "So, which piece of meat do you think the boss should string up for the Bat?" The man stuck the thin, fried slice of pork into his mouth while he listened for his companion's answer.

"I can think of a couple of expensive disappointments I wish he'd string up." The older gangster replied while viciously cutting through his pancake stack.

"Got to be sympathetic looking, he says," the younger man murmured while lifting his coffee mug toward his mouth.

"Who gets to spend tonight picking her out?"

"Nails" lowered his glass enough to smile over its rim. "Well I owe a good night's work. Guess I could make the sacrifice."

The older mobster gave him a cold look over his plate. "You wish. You owe a hard night's work."

The other man's smug smile didn't waver as he answered. "The boss will decide."

"Better yet, why don't we make ourselves useful and make Bat-bait unnecessary?"

"Keep dreaming Russo."

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They tell me what I did right so I can do more of it and what I did wrong so I can fix it. ****J**


	12. Chapter 12

**I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, or Dead-Shot. I did create Madge, Evelyn Ainsley, Lenny Nails, and "Chuckles" Charles.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

Madge stared at the man.

"You're the doc's friend?"

"I've been a family friend of Dr. Thomkins for some years, yes."

A few not so friendly thoughts about Dr. Thomkins ran through Madge's mind. Her thoughts flashed back to that morning's conversation. The good doctor had never referred to her new teacher as a "she," but had also never corrected her when she had. Madge's eyes narrowed.

"How do I know you're her friend?"

"Well she takes her tea with honey, not sugar, and . . ."

"What's my name?"

"I believe Dr. Thomkins said it was 'Madge Robertson.'"

Madge clenched her teeth. "You're . . . him." She closed the door, but didn't undo the chain lock. Her instructor on domestic arts was a "he." After a few days of reprieve from dealing with members of the male sex, she was expected to spend hours alone with one.

Madge felt like marching up to her borrowed room, packing her bags, and leaving. Except she had no bags, and nothing of her own to put in them, or anywhere to go, but she could figure out something. A voice echoed from outside the door.

"Is something wrong, Miss?"

Madge thought a few more moments. If she left, she knew where she'd end up. The scenarios were no worse than this one. She took the chain off and swung the door open.

. . .

Leslie strode down the street, regretting that she hadn't told Miss Robertson the sex of her instructor. Of course, Alfred would be horrified at the idea of taking advantage of her patient, his student, but Madge might be hard to convince of that. The fact she hadn't told her would seem like a betrayal. But if she had told Miss Robertson, her patient might have left before Alfred arrived. She herself might have stayed, but she had put off certain chores long enough. Nothing would be open after her shift, at least no place she wanted to go that late.

. . .

The man was standing over the open trunk of a small black car. Madge almost slammed the door shut. He looked up and smiled while lifting a brown paper bag into his arms.

"Jolly good, you've decided to let me in. While you were making up your mind, I decided to start unloading the groceries."

He marched back up the stone steps with a bag in each arm, deposited them on the floor of the entryway, walked back out, and repeated the process until eight bags were lined up in front of her. Then he shut the door. The Englishman hung up his hat, jacket, and scarf on the coat-rack to the right of the door and rolled up his sleeves.

"After we put away these groceries, I suggest we begin in the kitchen. The sinks have a few soiled dishes in them have they not?"

Madge folded her arms.

"Yep. What do I call you 'teach'?"

"'Mr. Pennyworth' seems appropriate at this juncture, Miss Robertson."

"Hmm." _Better than what some men have asked me to call them._

"Right this way then."

The professor of domestic arts lifted two bags off the floor and began to stride down the hall. Madge followed behind with a clenched jaw and unblinking eyes. Mr. Pennyworth carried the two bags into the kitchen, set them down, and waited for his student to enter behind him.

"I assume you have previous instruction and practice in housekeeping."

"Yep."

"Any of it professional?"

"Nope."

"In that case we'll concentrate on what it means to be professional in maintaining the upkeep of another's house."

"Why not?"

"First, one must become familiar with how the areas one is responsible for are organized. When only a few things are out of place, one can generally get a good sense of their preferred order. I had a rather nasty experience once. The other household servants purposely misplaced things to confound me on my first day. Fortunately, fellow workers are usually more professional. Often the chap who did the work before will show you about the place. I have some experience here. So, I will take that role now."

"Exactly how much 'experience' do you have in this house, Mr. Pennyworth?"

"Oh, far too much to be exact. The family that employs me was on intimate terms with Dr. Thompkins long before I worked for them. Since then, I've accompanied my employers on several visits and had numerous opportunities to serve the doctor and them during their visits."

"Oh."

Alfred bent down and began to unpack the contents of the grocery bag.

"Now the organization of Dr. Thompkins' kitchen is unusually convenient . . ."

. . .

Lucius stared at the hands of the clock. There wasn't a time difference, but timing was something to consider. She never let returning calls interrupt her sleep. He couldn't try before nine AM. Nor should he call before ten. She hated conducting business before breakfast. He should also give her a little time to make herself presentable. Even though they couldn't be seen over the phone, people felt more at ease when they looked good.11 AM should be the sweet spot. The hands moved to the desired numbers. He picked up the phone, pressed the necessary numbers on the device, and held the phone to his ear.

One ring, two, three . . . . (Click).

"Good morning, you have reached Ainsley manor. Whom am I addressing?"

"Evie? Good to hear your voice again. How was Europe?"

"Lucius Fox! You are the only man who would have the nerve to address me like that just ten years since I buried George."

"I called you that when he was still walking around."

"On the other side of the world. Europe was fine, I suppose. They hardly ever do something new with those tourist sites of theirs."

"They're historical sites, Evie. You hate it when they put parking lots in nearby."

"Well it ruins the whole feel of the place. Honestly, you're supposed to feel as though you've been transported away from this modern nightmare. Now, why did you really call, Lucius?"

"I'm afraid I've a favor to ask of you Ev."

. . .

Madge washed the dishes. Mr. Pennyworth inspected them. Every now and then he handed a dish back to her pointing out a crusted on crumb she'd missed, but more often he nodded with satisfaction. Then he rinsed, dried, and put them away explaining why it belonged there.

His student paid enough attention to absorb the information while watching his hands, eyes, and shoulders from the corners of her eyes. She also listened more to the tone of his voice than his words and kept a distance of a few feet from him. If Mr. Pennyworth noted these things, he gave no visual cues nor said anything on the matter. In fact, the silence was getting on her nerves.

"So, the family you work for is friendly with the doc?"

Mr. Pennyworth nodded. "Indeed."

"What are their names?"

"When I first met Dr. Thompson, I was employed by the Wayne family. Now I keep house for their son and heir, Bruce Wayne."

Madge froze. This was the butler who'd received custody of his murdered employers' son, left with the city with him some years later, returned alone, and took control of the estate. Word on the street was that he'd 'taken care of the kid' in some convenient corner of the globe. "Bruce Wayne" had not been seen in nearly ten years. Madge went back to running the wash cloth over the surface of a plate.

"So, uh, where is Mr. Wayne, anyway?"

"I'm afraid Master Wayne instructed me to reveal his whereabouts only to a few individuals."

"Uh-huh. Must be nice having a great big manor to yourself."

"No."

Something in the man's tone made Madge's head swivel to look directly into his face. His voice, expression, and the slump in his shoulders made her heart twist painfully. The butler didn't look up from the skillet he was scraping eggs off of.

"No, continuing the upkeep of an empty manor for years without employers to please, company to entertain, or fellow human beings to interact with is not very nice at all."

The normally skeptical Madge later realized she'd never believed Mr. Pennyworth had killed his young employer after that moment.

. . .

The lights in the Bat Cave came on. Bruce Wayne's eyes snapped open. He sat up. His shoulders relaxed slightly as a voice echoed through the cavern.

"Good afternoon, Sir. Does your regular breakfast tray sound appetizing?"

Bruce threw the blanket and sheet aside, dropped to the marble floor, and began to do jumping jacks.

"It does Alfred. How did things go with Miss Robertson?"

"She was a quick study. However, she was rather stiff at first. She became even more so when we entered Dr. Thomkins bedroom, so I could show her how to make a bed properly. There were moments I thought she'd stare holes into my skull. I must say, even if I was twenty years younger and we met at a dinner party, I would not have used any charms upon her. It would be like showing a riding crop to a shying horse."

"Did she relax before you left?"

"I believe so." A corner of Alfred's moustache lifted. "She tensed when I admitted to being Bruce Wayne's infamous butler-guardian. When do you plan on 'returning' from your travels, Mr. Wayne?"

"At the optimal moment."

Alfred nodded. His employer and godson completed his two hundredth jumping jack. The younger man's skin still had no sheen of sweat. The butler turned towards the elevator that would take him back up to the tunnel, which led to the false back of the pantry connected to the mansion's kitchen.

"I'll just go see about your breakfast then."

"Alfred."

The servant turned back.

"Yes, sir?"

Bruce continued to look straight ahead at the wall as he continued his morning workout.

"Thank you."

A grin lit the man-servant's face.

"You're most welcome, Master Bruce."

. . .

The mob boss sat behind his desk. He was flanked by two men. Both were taller than him, held handguns, and were in better physical shape. The only thing that nearly rivaled this king of industry's appreciation of power and family was his appreciation for food. It showed in the extra mass hanging from his frame.

However, his mind was constantly at work. He had not gotten where he was from being bad at reading other men's intentions in their gestures, expressions, what they said, and what they did not say. He didn't like the man before him.

The aforementioned gentleman was over six feet tall and muscled. He had a thin brown mustache, a wide grin, and glinting eyes. He was leaning back in the chair, legs splayed, smoking his own cigar instead of waiting for his host to offer him one. Still, all his sources said he was the best. He'd just finished a job on the west coast for an old associate who'd vouched for him. Nothing, but the best would do. He leaned forward to look into his guest's smirking face.

"So, you think you can rid us of our Bat problem?"

The other man drew the cigar out of his mouth and blew out a smoke ring. His smirk widened.

"Give me an interesting shot, and I'll take it."

"You can pick out the place yourself. We'll bait it."

The other man raised an eyebrow.

"Bait?"

"We know what draws him out."

The out- of -towner coughed into his hand with a grin.

"Guess it hasn't worked out for you."

The mob boss clamped his jaw shut. Having the upstart shot now would mean weeks spent finding a replacement. He could wait until after the job was done to remind this "Dead Shot" who he speaking to. The man behind the desk slid a map toward the man in front of it.

"Mark where you want him to be. We'll set it up for you. Don't take too long. Five months of this 'hero's' good work is as much as I want to put up with. Make sure it's all I have to put up with, and you'll get your six-hundred and fifty grand as agreed."

The stranger grinned, took the map, rose from his chair, removed his hat, and swept a bow to the occupants of the office.

"Nice doing business with you, gentlemen."

He put the hat back on his head, the cigar back in his mouth, turned, and strutted from the room.

. . .

Lenny the Nail and "Chuckles" Charles sat at the bar grinning at the show. Lenny poured himself another drink.

"So, you picked her out, yet?"

Charles smirked and picked up his own half-filled glass.

"Eh, it might take a while. There are so many to choose from."

Even as he spoke, the corner of his eye noticed a girl not on stage. She was holding her head down, scanning the groups of people around her with wide, unsmiling eyes. Chubby cheeks, a pouting mouth, and curly blond hair gave her a babyish look that contrasted with the sheer dress she wore, the hem of which barely covered her bottom.

He noted her. Then he turned back to those who were more his type. Yeah, she'd do. You couldn't get more damsel in distress than that.

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They tell me what I did right so I can do more of it and what I did wrong so I can fix it. **


	13. Chapter 13

**I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, or Dead-Shot. I did create Madge, Evelyn Ainsley, Lenny Nails, and "Chuckles" Charles.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

"You could have told me."

Leslie smiled. Madge blinked. The Doc's expression was softer than she'd ever seen it before. She managed to look somewhat ashamed of herself while she answered.

"If I had, you may have come to conclusions based solely on his sex. I hoped this way you wouldn't be gone before he arrived." Her eyes grew sharp as they met Madge's. "Did he do anything unprofessional?"

The other woman shook her head.

"All that happened was I learned how to make a bed so a quarter will bounce on it and where you keep your roaster."

"Would you be against the continuation of your lessons with him?"

Madge shrugged.

"Guess not. How long would that 'continuation' last? When he's through teaching me, am I going to stay here and be your live-in maid?"

"You can leave whenever you wish, but I would like you to take something with you when you do."

Madge spun away from the sink with furrowed eyebrows.

"What?"

Leslie raised a fork to the light and examined it.

"When we've finished these dishes, I'll take you up to my room and show you."

. . .

Lenny Nails and Chuckles Charles entered their boss' office with wide grins. Their boss looked up with a scowl. Both underlings let their faces fall, somewhat. Charles rotund stomach still puffed out as he spoke.

"Hey boss, we got the babe-bait pegged. All she's missing is a little halo and cherub wings."

Lenny nodded.

"Real, sweetheart. The Bat's sure to bite."

Their boss leaned back in his chair and fixed narrowed eyes upon them.

"Tell him who to talk to and 'Undertaker' will make the negotiations."

Lenny blew out a mouthful of smoke.

"Has the out-of-towner picked out a spot?"

The "Boss" leaned back in his chair with a glare. "He hasn't contacted us, yet. If he doesn't by tomorrow, we'll have to find him."

. . .

Dead-Shot strolled through Gotham Park. He grinned at every passerby before raising his eyes back up to study the buildings surrounded the location. He sighed.

For all its sweet, picturesque, highbrow charm there was no interesting shot potential. Gazebos, restrooms, and the occasional food and souvenir stands were the only structures in the area. Trees and bushes were too thick in some areas, even for him, while others were boringly exposed. Onto the next tourist trap.

. . .

Madge blinked at the open store boxes. She kept expecting them to disappear, or for herself to wake up, one of those two. Leslie gazed at the same open boxes on her bed, trying not to smile.

"Since I've been your physician these last few weeks I thought I could guess your size with a fair amount of accuracy. Of course you'll have to try them on to be sure."

Madge reached down and picked the blouse up with the tips of her thumbs and forefingers. She held it up two feet from her face.

"Am I paying you back for these through my cleaning services?"

"Not unless you wish to. If you do leave leave this job, these may be of help finding another."

Madge turned to her host with raised eyebrows.

"You think I can get a job where I'd have to wear these."

"At least for the interview process. Does the idea displease you?"

Madge turned back to the blouse with a twisted smile.

"Amuse is more like it."

. . .

Bruce gazed at the plans of Ainsley manor. Lucius studied them from the other side of the table with a grin.

"Evie says she'll be glad to help. But, she wants to meet each of the girls first."

"Did she say what she would and would not tolerate?"

"She says while she's not overly attached to her property, turning a blind eye to the theft would be against her principles. She also says she can forgive ignorance, but not laziness. And she'd appreciate it if Alfred could train them to be half as good as he is before she takes them on."

Bruce nodded. His partner's smile widened.

"It does fill the gap in the plans." Lucius looked up from the papers. His gaze fixed on the other man. "She asked about you."

Bruce's eyes snapped up to meet Lucius'.

"What did you say?"

"I told her I knew you were fine, but couldn't say any more than that."

Bruce's gaze fell back to the papers.

"Thank you."

"She said you took after her, blood or no. Disappear whenever you want and leave everyone hanging. She also says she'd like to see her 'nephew' again before she leaves this world."

Bruce raised a pair of narrowed eyes to the businessman. They didn't fool the business man at all. He stared right back. Bruce lowered his gaze back to the papers.

"At the optimal time, Lucius."

. . .

"So, this is what a woman in the work force is supposed to look like."

Madge examined her reflection while Leslie turned the collar of the blouse down in the back. Miss Thompson then pulled the other woman's mass of red curls back. She looked over her guest's shoulder and into the mirror as well. The older woman nodded. Then the doctor swept the mass of hair into a twist and attempted to hide it behind Madge's head.

"I was able to accurately guess your size . But I believe we'll have to find a professional style for your hair."

Madge gave the mirror an amused smile. She felt like a girl playing dress up at a slumber party. Only most little girls didn't dress up in a white blouse that buttoned up all the way to the neck, and a gray jacket with matching dress pants.

"This doesn't double as my maid's outfit?"

"No. If you work for a service they'll likely have their own uniform for you, but I don't recommend that."

"Why not?"

"They could send you anywhere, and you can run into anybody. The same goes for working at a hotel."

"Guess I could be here working for you for a while then."

Madge ran her hand over the material wondering how much it had cost the woman behind her and if she should stay and work it off or just ditch it if she left. Leslie turned and began to gather up the cardboard boxes and tissue paper off her bed.

"For a few weeks of further training with Mr. Pennyworth at least. Unless you have any concerns."

Madge turned on the other woman with a mock scowl.

"I had plenty of concerns when he first showed up, thanks to your holding out on a few bits of info." The redhead turned back to the mirror and shrugged. "But if all he does is teach me like he did yesterday, all I'll do is learn."

"I've only known him to do what is asked in the best way it can be done."

Madge turned sideways to watch the woman behind her.

"How is it you know so many good people, doc?"

Leslie's hand paused in mid-reach for the last box top on her bedspread. A corner of her mouth twitched. Her eyes shone with more moisture than usual. Then she snatched the last box and placed it atop the stack in her other arm.

"I don't know as many as I used to."

. . .

Dead Shot gazed down from Wayne Tower. The tallest building in Gotham did provide an excellent view. He studied the skyline.

Lots of buildings with big windows. However, all these windows looked into were furnished offices, apartments, waiting rooms, ect. All these were places it just wouldn't do to leave bait. Same for most of the busy streets and grandiose statues. Too many people to notice. The bait would draw more than his prize if left within a mile of here.

. . .

The doorbell rang. This time, when the reverberation reached her Madge only started slightly. She now knew better than to have her sketch book out. She strode to the door, glanced out its peephole, and pulled it open.

He stood on the doorstep exactly as he had before. Either all of his outfits looked the same or he had washed, dried, and ironed the clothes from his last visit to wear again today. Madge stepped aside with an amused smile. Alfred Pennyworth stepped through the doorway.

"Good Morning, Miss Robertson."

As her instructor hung up his hat and jacket, Madge closed the door behind him.

"What are we doing today, Teach?"

Mr. Pennyworth had finished rolling up his right sleeve and began to do the same with his left.

"I thought we'd go over our last lessons, and if we still have time, I will show you the basics of polishing silver."

"Sounds like a wild time."

. . .

The ferry chugged towards the far shore and Bludhaven. To the right rose the alternative means of crossing the river, Blood Bridge. The structure looked far too beautiful for its menacing name just then. Against the purple and blue sky of the evening shone the lights of dozens of cars speeding across. Trellis supports held the suspension lines in place, a web of bars in empty space. Deadshot stared at them from the bridge of the boat.

. . .

The young woman paused to remove her high heels before walking up the stone stairs. Alice's eyes softened as she remembered the way Samson had looked at her when she put on the first pair of shoes he'd bought her. Then she winced as her foot met the ground. The young woman pinned on a grin and bounced up to the doorstep.

Samson had called the club and said he wanted to see her right away. Her heart sang with relief. He'd been happy the day after he got back from the hospital, but then had gotten upset just a few days later when someone saw the Batman again. He'd been grumpy after that. There had been some yelling, and throwing things, and . . .

She froze midway through turning the doorknob. Then she shook her head. He'd just been angry. He was over it now.

How else could he feel when Madge had just disappeared like that? Samson said she left on a job for him and just hadn't come back since. Alice tossed her head. She would never do something like that. And Samson knew she would never do something like that.

She twisted the knob and shoved it open. The light stung her eyes. Her blue eyes blinked as she trotted down the hall. She froze in front of the kitchen. Her shoes clattered to the floor.

There was Samson. He had his bottle and shot glass like every night. But he wasn't sitting were he could watch the doorway like he always did.

Two men were watching it, watching her, instead. They flanked the sides of the table. Both of them smiled at her. That was good. So, why did she shiver?

She looked back at Samson. He was leaning back against the end of the table farthest from her. He was sitting in one chair and resting his feet on the other. His scotch bottle was sitting next to his turned back. His hand paused as he raised a full glass to his lips.

"Come on in, sweetheart."

Alice sucked in a breath. Her bare feet took her step by tiny step in through the doorway. She straightened her back and flashed the men a friendly grin. Samson told her she was beautiful when she grinned that way.

"Can I get anything for anyone?"

Samson didn't move. A cold sensation crawled up her back. Was he angry after all?

She took another step toward the table. Then she paused. Finally, Samson emptied his glass and raised his voice.

"Do you gentlemen need something before you leave?"

The man on the right shook his head.

"No, thanks Sam. We just have time to pick her up and go tonight."

The cold chill stopped crawling and shot up her spine. She started to shake.

"Me?"

Samson stared at the bottom of his empty glass.

"Yep."

The men were smirking at her now. Her muscles tightened to run, but she couldn't run. Running away from him did make Sam angry. She clasped her hands together to make them stop trembling.

She wasn't scared by men anymore, not really. She was over that. She'd been with four men just that night. What were two more? If only they would look like they wanted . . . that.

Anyway, Samson would tell her what was going on in a moment. She stared at his back. He reached back and picked up his scotch bottle without looking.

She swallowed. He'd answer if she asked. He hadn't sounded angry. His shoulders weren't bunched up like they did when he was grumpy. She breathed out, and smiled wider.

"Is everything OK?"

He pulled something out of his pocket held it up. A wad of cash was pinched in his fingertips. This time she could hear the smile in his voice.

"Things are great for me."

The two men started walking towards her. She took half a step back from them.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Samson shrugged.

"Not really, but I was offered a good deal." A chuckle shook his shoulders.

"It included revenge on the Bat."

One of the men lunged at her. His arms wrapped around both of hers and pinned them. He lifted her in a bruising grip. Her feet left the floor. Then he began to back them both towards the doorway.

Samson still wasn't looking. She stared at him. She began shaking her head from side to side.

"Sam, Sam please! Please turn around! Sam where am I going?"

He still didn't turn around. He lifted his shot glass to his lips and drank its contents in one gulp. Maybe that meant he felt bad.

She tried to dig her throbbing heels into the floor. They entered the hallway. The bruised, cracked skin screamed as they met the wooden boards.

What could she say to at least make him turn around? If he just saw her face, he wouldn't do this.

"Sam! Sam please! Please! I love you! Please look at me! Just look at me! Please!"

His head never moved. His shoulders never bunched. His hand didn't shake as he refilled the shot glass. Then she was beyond the doorway. She couldn't see him anymore.

What had she done?

They took her out the door and closed it. She screamed louder. The man holding her put a hand over her mouth.

No, no he'd come after her. He would. He had to. He loved her. But what if these men did something to her first?

What had she done to make him this angry? What had she done to make him stop loving her? Who would protect her now?

**I'm sorry this update took so long. I got writer's block working on this and the upcoming chapter. I reread and updated the first three chapters in hopes of relieving the block and better pleasing new readers. Then Christmas got closer and real life got crazier. Then I got a job and whoo boy! I wish I could promise the next chapter will be up soon, but I really can't. Please forgive me. :(**

**If you liked something, please review and tell me about it. If you didn't like something, you can tell me that too. **


	14. Chapter 14

**I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, or Dead-Shot. I did create Madge, Alice, Elizabeth Wayne, and Evelyn Ainsley.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

Madge had almost finished a sketch of her new teacher. She was shading the bottom curve of the Englishman's monocle. He didn't actually wear an eye-piece, but it seemed to fit somehow.

The phone rang. Her pencil's point swept beyond its marked boundary. The artist huffed.

Madge turned her head to scowl at the blaring appliance. Then she turned back to her sketch and began to erase. The phone kept ringing.

Madge let it. Only the Bat, doc, and her teacher knew she was there. They all wanted it to stay that way. She gave a smile when the ringing stopped. The tension in her shoulders relaxed. The artist began to shade again.

Another ring filled the room. Madge let her head fall back with a groan. Then her stare locked onto the distraction.

Madge grabbed the receiver. When they asked for the doc, she would tell them they had the wrong number and just hang up. That could get her several minutes of peace at least. She pulled the receiver to her mouth.

"What do you want?"

That unfriendly greeting was bound to rattle the caller into believing whatever she said. But no, the voice on the other end sounded calmer than hers. In fact, it was an eerie dark sort of calm.

"Madge."

The eraser froze on the page. The artist sat up. Her mouth dropped open.

"Bat?"

"Are you safe?"

Madge blinked.

"Yeah, sure. Doc went over to the hospital tonight, so I'm alone, but all the doors I know about are locked. Why?"

Batman glanced up at the smoke still coming from the car that exploded near the bridge about thirty homeless people sheltered under. Four injured, two with major burns, one with bruising and a possible concussion from falling onto the concrete. Another seemingly illogical and impersonal crime. The last time there was such an attack so near the Red Light District, at this time of night . . . the voice on the other end of the line interrupted his thoughts.

"Should I be worried or something?"

"I thought there might be reason to be. Stay alert tonight. If one or more intruders enter the premixes, hide in the tunnel and use the radio hanging by the door panel to contact me."

Madge frowned as the dial tone hummed in her ear.

. . .

The following noon, Leslie Thompkins' house guest stepped through the kitchen door and froze. Mr. Pennyworth was breaking eggs over a skillet on the stove. Madge blinked at him, but before she opened her mouth the butler spoke without turning around.

"Dr. Thompson had another twelve hour shift in the hospital emergency room last night, so I drove her home this morning. She ate breakfast in the car. I sent her to bed as soon as she entered the house. I thought I'd stay, make brunch for the two of us, and we could get an early, quiet start on your lessons."

The man-servant finally turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

"Do you know how to get dried or, let us hope you never need the knowledge, burnt egg off a cooking pan?"

Madge blinked at him and opened her mouth.

"Uuuuuuuuuhhhh, I think my mom used . . . baking soda."

Mr. Pennyworth nodded and turned back to his eggs.

"Jolly good."

Madge's eyebrows rose at his back. Then she pulled out the chair in front of the nearest place setting. A nearly identical one was directly across from it. She studied them.

At their centers sat empty plates. On either side of these were a napkin and silverware. Above and to the right of the plates were shallow bowls each holding six orange slices. Along the top of her place mat sat two, empty glasses. At their right sat a mug of coffee. Madge picked up the coffee and looked up at her teacher.

"Do you have a key to this place?"

The manservant's head bobbed.

"I do in fact."

Madge's eyebrows rose.

"And you and the Doc's relationship is, what, again?"

The butler diced something on a cutting board as he replied.

"Dr. Thomkins was a good friend of my late employers, the Wayne's. They named her the godmother of their son. He and I are both rather concerned for her safety and well being. She has an admirable, but worrisome habit of keeping late hours and frequenting the less safe neighborhoods of the city."

Madge grinned to herself as a tall, dark, masked figure appeared in her mind. She took a sip of her coffee. She's not the only one.

"How long have you been looking after her?"

Alfred raised the cutting board up and tipped it to one side, then used the knife to slide the diced toppings over the eggs.

"When she or Dr. Wayne worked a long shift at the hospital, the other would drive their fellow doctor home the following morning. When Dr. Wayne married, I drove both him and Dr. Thomkins home after their shifts."

Madge's eyebrows rose again. This was getting as good as a novel. She took another sip of coffee and leaned in.

"So you've been driving, cooking, and grocery shopping for her ever since the other doctor married someone else?"

Mr. Pennyworth glanced at her over his shoulder before turning back to the contents of the skillet.

"She and Dr. Wayne never had a romantic relationship. She was the best friend of his late sister. After Elizabeth Wayne died at the tender age of eleven, Leslie assumed the role of older sister to Thomas Wayne. Both went on to attend medical school together."

"Oh." Madge fell back into her chair. Then she looked up with a deep frown in her forehead. "So, what does that make you?"

Alfred turned the omelet over.

"When the Waynes' married, I became their butler, chauffeur, and bodyguard. I took on duties of looking out for Dr. Thomkins, because they did."

"And you just kept going?"

The manservant gave her a longer look over his shoulder.

"She is my employer's godmother, and he has asked me to see that she is safe and in good health."

"The employer whose AWOL?"

"The one who decided to travel abroad alone for a time."

Mr. Pennyworth lifted the pan from the stove and slid the omelet with cheese, sausage, ham, diced onions and red pepper onto a large blue plate. There he cut it into halves, walked over to Madge's side of the table and transferred one portion to her empty plate. The butler filled their glasses before sitting down. Madge grinned over her mug. Her tone became dryer than usual.

"So if he doesn't come back, and something happens to you, the Doc's . . ."

"A cousin of mine watched over both Wayne Mansion and Dr. Thomkins while I traveled with Mr. Wayne. He has instructions and funds set up for doing so again in the event I and Mr. Wayne are no longer able to."

Madge smiled while she took another sip of her coffee. Letting Mr. Pennyworth save her from saying dirty words had become a favorite past time of hers.

"So your cousin drove her back from the hospital, did her grocery shopping, and snuck into her kitchen to make breakfast while you were gone?"

He picked up his fork.

"He had no need to sneak. I loaned him my key. And Dr. Thomkins agreed to the proposal before we left."

Madge cut into the omelet and took a bite. Her eyes widened. She looked up at her instructor.

"I thought you said the Doc preferred green peppers?"

"Indeed, but she has already had her breakfast, or perhaps more accurately, her dinner, this morning on the drive back here. This is our breakfast. And I seem to remember you staring at the green peppers before setting them in the fridge and asking if there were any red as well. You appeared disappointed that there weren't before replying 'red are better.'"

Madge blinked at the Englishman.

"How do you remember that?"

"If you remain in the service business long, Miss Robertson, you will learn remembering others preferences goes a long way in staying employed."

Madge smiled and took another bite of her omelet.

"You know, the Doc having you around is real convenient for both of us."

Alfred took a sip from a teacup sitting in the place on his mat he'd set Madge's coffee on hers.

"When my employer was abroad without me, having someone else to serve was convenient for me."

Madge looked up at the butler from under her eyelashes. For a moment she just studied him. Then a cheeky smirk washed over her face.

"So, did your cousin fill in for you in serving any other needs of Doc's?"

He spent a second scowling at her with a bristling mustache. Then a look of serenity passed over his face and he took a bite of his half of the omelet. Madge giggled. Asking questions Mr. Pennyworth wouldn't dignify with a answer had become her other favorite pastime.

. . .

Alice's head shot up as she heard the chain outside the door rattle. She had wedged herself in between the toilet and the sink. The room wasn't exactly clean, but she was still relieved she'd been locked into a place with both fixtures.

The door swung open and the two men who had taken her out of the apartment building entered. One held a large Styrofoam cup with a plastic straw sticking out of it. Another had a paper bag that greasy smells emanated from. He set it down in front of her.

"Here you go doll-face. One extra large burger. Didn't know what you liked, so we got it with everything."

Alice gave her captor something between a fake smile and real grimace as she reached for the bag. The other man set down the cup nearby.

"Here's a large water to go with it. Not great stuff, but better than what comes out of the piping in this place."

Alice glanced up at them as she drew the wrapped food out of the bag.

"Are, are you going to let me out soon?"

"Sure babe," the slightly handsomer one winked at her. "As soon as it gets dark enough to. After we have a little fun. Okay?"

She tried to smile as she chewed, and nearly made a face instead. Why had the cook been so generous with the onions?

. . .

Madge scrubbed at the egg sticking to the skillet with a glare.

"I don't think eggy breakfasts are worth it."

Mr. Pennyworth smiled while holding the drying cloth beside her.

"Mrs. Wayne used to say similar things when she insisted on helping me."

Madge's head turned to face him as her eyebrows rose. "Mrs. Wayne did dishes?"

The butler nodded.

"On her mornings off, Saturdays and Sundays usually."

Madge handed the cleaned skillet to the butler.

"She worked?"

Mr. Pennyworth nodded again as he took the pan from her and began to rub the moisture off its shining surface.

"She was a teacher. Substituted grades Kindergarten through twelfth."

Madge continued to wash a delicate glass with a thoughtful expression on her face.

"You know teach, before I came to Gotham, I thought there weren't any nice people in the world. Then I came to Gotham and I was sure of it. Turns out, I just showed up a decade and a half late, and a few years early."

"Your age makes it rather impossible for you to have shown up that early, as for late, one is never too late if they come while there is still work to be done and they are capable of doing it."

. . .

The boat swayed beneath her and Alice leaned with it. Her stomach clenched. Nausea washed through her, but she kept her jaw clenched tight. She didn't want any other boats rocked. The men had driven her to the docks and put her on this boat. Her stomach clenched again when she wondered about this, but she didn't ask.

Suddenly a bridge loomed up before her. She tried to place it, but failed. After arriving by train she hadn't been out of the Red Light District much. As the small tugboat was enveloped by the structure's shadow, she thought they'd go right under it, but suddenly the chuggin of the engine stopped.

Alice jumped. One of the men chuckled.

"It's okay sweetie. We're just going to take a walk now."

"Walk?"

"Well, a walk, after a climb."

A light swung upwards and Alice's jaw dropped. The bottom of a ladder hung over the highest point of the boat. Her legs began to shake. Her head swept back and forth.

"No, no, I can't."

A hand gripped her upper arm and squeezed. Yet the man's voice came out sweet in her ears, sweet and strong, and determined.

"Sure you can."

But Alice wasn't as afraid of what she'd been through a hundred times before as what she was now.

"No. No I can't."

The other man's voice broke in.

"Just drag her up there."

He did. He dragged her up to that point and hoisted her up to the first rung. Now his voice came out not sweet at all.

"You make me put you down, and I'll tell Samson. He'll never want to see your sorry carcass again."

Alice gulped. She raised her hands and grabbed the first rung. Then she began to climb. The man behind her called up encouragement.

"That's a good girl."

. . .

The light was on in Madge's room. The drapes were pulled away from the window. Something square shaped and the size of his palm was silhouetted near the center of the pane. The Batman lowered himself onto the fire-escape and examined the item more careful. It was flat, thin, and taped to the glass he removed it with the ripping, suction sound of peeling tape.

He held it up close to his face. Glossy surface, white, folded in fourths. He unfolded it with the thumb of the hand holding it and then the index finger of his other hand. A map of Gotham and the surrounding area, shades of gray with thin black lines for roads and tiny black squares and dots for points of interest. There was also one recently added "x" mark made with a red-inked pen. As the paper unfolded entirely by the forces of gravity and a sudden breeze another piece of square, glossy paper fell out and onto the fire-escape floor. He knelt and picked it up, tuning it over as her brought it closer to his nose and eyes. He squinted, not in difficulty seeing, but anger. It was a picture of a smiling, innocent face of a girl, one he hadn't seen leaving this apartment building that night.

. . .

Alice almost screamed in relief when her hand touched a flat surface instead of another rung. She scrambled up, lay down on the cold, metal surface and just breathed. She couldn't see a thing in the darkness, but something told her that was a good thing. There was a grunt and then a click right where she had just been. Then her eyes were overwhelmed with light. The now familiarly low, sweet voice sounded behind the beam.

"Well we both made it sweetheart. We're half way there."

Alice nodded, even though she had no idea what he was talking about.

He stepped up beside her, then past her. Alice could hear the other man talking to himself on the ladder just below her. The first man turned and help his hand out.

"Come on toots. No use stopping now."

Alice held her hand out. He grabbed it and pulled her to her feet. Then he shown the flashlight back down to the top of the ladder as the other man's head appeared in the beam. He yelled something and the man holding her hand laughed.

"Catch up, Sunshine, before the girl and I leave you behind."

He backed up a step and pointed the light to where she had been lying a moment before. The other man got off the ladder, stood up, and nodded. The first man squeezed her hand.

"Hold tight to me now sweetie."

He pulled her along. Her empty hand brushed the cold touch of a metal railing. Beyond it was the sensation of an expanse of emptiness. From below their feet came the lap of water on metal and concrete. Above their heads a continuous whooshing and rolling went on.

Alice felt her limbs trembling. The man holding her hand used his other to pat it.

"Now, now sweetie. Everything is going to be all right."

He stopped. The light of his flashlight illuminated a door-handle sticking out of the wall of metal to their left. The hand not holding hers shot out, turned, and yanked it. The groan of little-used metal hinges rotating slammed through the air. Then his flashlight lit up a doorway to their right. He went in and pulled her after him. Beyond was a stairway. They seemed to go up for several minutes. The man behind her was puffing. Pain shot through her arm as she struggled to keep up with the one pulling her onward.

Then he stopped and she just kept herself from bumping into him. She saw in the flashlight beam a door handle he gripped then he swept the beam into her face.

"Wanna see what we came up here for?"

She gave a small smile and nod. He pushed the door open and stepped out. Alice stepped out with him and froze. Beneath them ran a river of lights, car lights zooming over the river of dark water beneath them. underneath their feet. On either side smaller lights lit up the extension cables of the bridge. Beyond were the lights of Gotham city against the backdrop of the dark sky. Her jaw dropped. Suddenly the man's arms pulled her close. She was crushed to his chest, breathing in his breath. He was smiling at her.

"Ever kiss someone this high up?"

Alice gave a more real smile she had since the night before and shook her head. He kissed her. She melted in relief.

So this was what all this was about. He probably wanted to do several other things. Then he'd take her home and she could be in Samson's arms again. She and this man broke apart. He smiled at her again.

"Get the chains."

She frowned up at him. Then a jingle made her head turn to see the other man pulling them out of the back-pack he'd been wearing. She trembled slightly, but didn't do much else. She just had to survive this and then she'd go home.

She didn't say anything as they chained her to a metal crossbeam of the support beam. The man grinned at her again kissed her, lifted his hat from his head, and said "Nice knowing you toots." Then he turned away.

Nothing she yelled made him or the other man turn back as they left her there and shut the door behind them.

. . .

The building stood just to the right of the bridge along the river. From there he could watch the cars driving over Queen Bridge. He could also look through the trellises of the towers holding the structure up.

Deadshot reached up to adjust his eyepiece. A smirk spread over his face. There she was. Shivering from exertion or cold. It was a warm summer night, but he could feel for himself that the winds were making it chilly two-hundred floors above the streets. Her tiny skirt was plastered to her legs by the gusts.

The sniper smiled. It was almost a shame really. She did look like a sweet little thing, but she'd probably survive this, if the mark was considerate enough to show up within the next hour. The mark was described as a foot and a half taller than this little baby. So that gap in the trellis above her head should give him a nice view of the mark's lower head and upper neck. The bullet would angle down through the two sets of trellis of the first support beam, then through the first of the second, pierce through the cowl, and enter the mark's brain-stem. Another perfect, impossible shot.

**Sorry this update took so long. Writer's block has been strangling this story for months now. I will admit I have never gotten an up-close look at the under or insides of an enormous bridge. I attempted research, but if I wrote something impossible with bridge construction in the real world, please just go with it or tell me how to fix it.**

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They tell me what I did right so I can do more of it and what I did wrong so I can fix it. **


	15. Chapter 15

**I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, or Dead-Shot. I did create Alice and Madge.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

The red "x" on the map had been made over the center support tower of "Blood Bridge." Batman lifted his binoculars to study the area. His jaws clenched. There she was. His index ran over the magnifying dial.

The arms were stretched up towards the crossbeam above her. He increased the magnification of his binoculars again. Her wrists were in handcuffs hanging from the crossbeam above her head. She was pulled up so high her toes barely rested on the crossbeam beneath her.

His grip on the scopes tightened. All of his muscles had tensed. Batman lowered the binoculars and breathed slowly, methodically. Calm. He needed calm.

When his heart-rate had slowed, he lifted the binoculars again. His index finger spun the dial the other way. The magnification decreased significantly.

He studied the bridge's support system from right to left. The network of iron beams and their shadows could hide several shooters. Or . . . .

He swept his gaze over the buildings on either side of the bridge. Nothing visible, but that didn't mean nothing was there. He focused his instrument's gaze back on the hostage.

A sigh escaped his nostrils. The situation had a high likelihood of not ending well for either of them. He reached for his radio, lifted it to his lips, and pressed the button.

"Guardian to Nightingale. Come in Nightingale."

. . .

Leslie was lying in bed reading a medical journal. The radio on her nightstand crackled. A low voice came out of it. She set the magazine down, picked the gadget up, and pressed the button. Her godson was lucky this was her night off at the hospital.

"This is Nightingale, over."

"Your assistance may be needed within the hour."

Leslie's eyebrow rose.

"May?"

"It depends on what transpires in the next hour."

Leslie pushed the button again, but the line was dead. She scowled at the device. Then she slammed it down on her nightstand as she threw the covers off herself. She needed to remind Bruce it only made her worry more when he did that.

. . .

Batman tucked the radio back into his belt and leapt down into the portal barely emerging from the surface of the river. At least his journey to the bridge itself had a high likelihood of going unnoticed.

. . .

A door slam reverberated down the hall. Madge sat up in the guest room bed. She barely heard a few floorboards squeak as someone walked past her door and down the stairs. Madge blinked and rose from the mattress she had flopped onto an hour earlier. She grabbed the robe, because it was slightly chilly in the room, and looked out from the slit the slightly ajar door offered. A light was on downstairs.

Holding her breath, she heard the kitchen door swing open and closed. She slowly edged the door open another foot and a half or so and squeezed out. Then she tiptoed down the hall and stairs herself.

. . .

Batman stood atop the hull of his submarine beneath the bridge. He was just beneath the walkway of the structure. He reached to his belt, removed something from its place, and held it up towards the sound of traffic.

A soft explosion of air was followed by a zipping sound. Then a clank echoed off the concrete and iron. His thumb pressed the button. With a soft whir, Batman was pulled into the air. He climbed over the guard rail and landed on the walkway with less noise than his equipment made. Ahead he saw the still open door to the stairwell inside the center support beam. They'd left it open for him. Cute.

. . .

Madge winced as the kitchen door groaned on its hinges, but she still stuck her head in. The room was deserted. She slipped into the room and fixed her gaze on the door to the basement.

. . .

Batman opened the door and fixed his gaze on the victim. She seemed to be in the same state as when he studied her through the binoculars. He stood for a moment listening.

Her breathing, it was the gasping of someone hyperventilating. Car horns and spinning tires below. A continual gust of wind. Any of these could be masking the breaths of one or more gunmen several feet away. If they were farther away than that it was no use anyway.

In one smooth, slow motion he lowered himself into a crouch. His muscles tensed. His eyes narrowed. Then he sprinted forward.

As if aiming for the legs of an opponent, he kept his head nearly even with his bent waist. Only the crown on his cowl should be visible over the guardrail. Five feet away, four, three, two, he stopped in front of her.

He looked up. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, which both indicated and induced panic. He could almost hear her elevated heart-rate. He raised his gaze higher. His eyes met others that were like plates of blue china. They were widened with terror, brittle with near panic. Anything could break them.

He let the muscles in his face and frame relax. His hands left the floor and then turned palms up to show they were empty and not in a strike pose. His voice was a low, monotone.

"I need to free your hands, and then get you to a safe place where you can get medical treatment. Nod if you understood me."

She nodded. The light of terror in her eyes faded slightly. Her limbs continued to shake with exertion.

He fixed his gaze onto the chain holding her up. His right hand reached for his belt. From one pocket he removed a small object he then transferred to his left hand. Then he gripped the chain cutters and pulled them free from their belt loop. For a moment he held both objects loosely. Then he met her gaze again and spoke in the same calming voice.

"Close your eyes."

. . .

Deadshot had seen someone moving low, but fast, across the walkway. He'd also noticed the bait's reaction and downward stare. He moved his finger to the trigger. Deadshot smiled. He tried not to blink behind his night-vision monocle. This mark was supposed to be quick.

The vigilante couldn't rescue the girl without freeing her hands. And he couldn't do that without standing up. Within seconds he'd be the assassin who ended Batman.

A burst of light flooded his vision. It stabbed through the green lens of his night-vision monocle, through his eye, and to the nerves behind. Deadshot shrieked.

He jerked back. His hand left the rifle to cover his eye. His retina burned. He blinked like it could end the pain. Whether it was the blinking or no the sensation eased to a dull ache in seconds. But those were seconds lost. Grabbing his own binoculars the sniper rose into a crouch and focused on the same spot that had cost him so much pain just moments before.

A broken chain waved in the wind. The bait was gone. His grip nearly cracked the twin scopes he held. A different burning built in his gut and chest.

. . .

Batman knew how long the light from the flash-bomb lasted. A moment later his eyes reopened. He had shot to his feet, raised the chain-cutters into position, squeezed, and caught the victim as she fell. When they were both behind the cover the guardrail provided, he released the breath he'd been holding. They were both alive.

. . .

"Hey Doc, what are you doing?"

Leslie turned from opening the door to the hidden make-shift examination-operation-overnight observation room. Her guest and new maid-in-training was watching her from the top of the stairs. Leslie let out a sigh.

"I suggest you go back to your room and get some sleep, Miss Robertson."

She turned back to enter and prepare for whatever situation she was going to be presented with. She froze as her house guest spoke again.

"It's him isn't it?"

She turned back. "Miss Robertson you should really . . ." Miss Robertson was already coming down the stairs.

"Is he okay."

Leslie puffed out a breath. "I won't know until he gets here."

Madge met her gaze. "I'd like to know then too."

The women stared at each other.

. . .

Batman turned his gaze to the open door they needed to reach. Now another dangerous part began. If he survived it, the chances of their both surviving the night increased dramatically.

If not, at least her chances had been increased. He swept his left arm under her legs. His right he wrapped around her back. The fingers of his left hand were curled around something. He released it. A sphere with the diameter of a quarter dropped the few inches to the walkway floor.

. . .

Deadshot glared through his backup eye-piece. His right eye saw nothing, but black, so he had switched to his left. It worked almost as well.

The bait was free, but the mark still had to get up unless he wanted both of them to crawl all the way back to their exit. Something rose from the walkway, but it wasn't a figure. A mist, no, steam, no, smoke poured upwards like a fire had caught down there. The wind caught it, carrying it towards the door and doing nothing to dissipate it. The sniper frowned.

. . .

Batman rose to his feet. There, the light he had stuck to the door-frame was barely visible through the smoke. Their cover was not going to last much longer in this wind. But he was still grateful for the gust all the same, it was blowing in exactly the right direction. He stood and sprinted forward holding the victim against his chest. He forced himself forward through the darkness. His jaw tightened, not with exertion of body, but will.

Instinct told him to stop, to slow. His feet fought going where his eyes could not see. His mind fought back.

The path was clear. The path was straight. No objects were there to trip him. One step more and they'd be out of range.

. . .

Deadshot adjusted the aim of the gun. Perhaps that smoke had obscured the shot he had wanted to take, but he had seen the quarry's entrance. He also knew his exit path. He knew his mark's height, could guess his stride, could guess the time it would take him to reach the tower. Perhaps at the end of all this, his reputation might just get better than it otherwise would have.

. . .

The Batman was one step away from safety when what he feared occurred. He heard the sound of his mask breaking. His head felt the impact. His body did what it had been screaming it would. He stumbled. The victim screamed and gripped him tighter.

He turned as he fell, so he would land on his back and not her. Thankfully, his momentum would carry both the rest of the way. The air was slammed out of his chest by the impact. Maybe it was the last he would ever take. He would have released it in a sigh anyway. They were both in front of the door.

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They tell me what I did right, so I ****can do more of it and what I did wrong, so I can fix it. **


	16. Chapter 16

**I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, or Dead-Shot. I did create Alice and Madge.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

The smoke had cleared. And there was no sign of a body. He packed up the equipment, piece by piece like always. No, not like always. His hands were shaking.

He clenched them into fists. They stilled. He finished packing the components into the case and strode to the exit, but he didn't leave the shell, _either _of the shells. For the first time, he walked away from a job without leaving his calling card. He would come back if the target was were he should be.

. . .

It took a full second after their fall for it to register. The back of his head ached more where it had met the walkway than the side where he had felt the initial impact. Batman's eyes narrowed in confusion. The fact they followed his subconscious command further indicated he had not taken the bullet in a way that caused instantaneous death.

The victim was crawling off him through the doorway. There she turned and looked down at him. The blue, china-plates appeared to have cracks in them. Her voice was a high-pitched squeal.

"Are you okay?!"

He blinked, then sat up. His hand rose to examine the side of the face and skull. Nothing, nothing, fingertips brushed a jagged edge of metal along the top of the cowl. The left antennae was gone.

The bullet had taken it off. The rest of the head-piece had absorbed the impact causing the painless thrust he had felt. His own momentum and doubt had done the rest. Batman sucked in and released a breath. Then he nodded.

"I'm fine."

He rose to his feet. The victim backed away as he entered. As soon as he was over the threshold, he slammed the door shut. The light affixed to the inside panel continued to illuminate the landing.

He looked down. He had already noted her ragged breathing, but now he saw the tears filling her eyes as well. She sniffed.

"I need to get back. I need to call him."

He made eye-contact and held it.

"No. You don't."

The shaking stopped. The tears dried. The blue, china-plate eyes became a perfect reflective surface revealing their surroundings and nothing more. She swiped a closed fist over her face and didn't look up again. He knelt down in front of her.

"Let me see your wrists."

She held up lax hands and bare wrists. He moved slightly to the right so the light could shine on them unimpeded by his shadow. An area of the skin had been rubbed raw.

"Now the feet."

She shuffled to her right and leaned back. The pads of the toes were raw. And those were only the injuries he could see. Who knew what invisible damage there was? He would have to carry her again, but he didn't want a repeat of what happened outside. He rose, took the light down and strapped it to his chest. Now it would illuminate the area in front of him. He took a few steps down the stairs and knelt.

"Get on my back."

He heard her shuffling. Then her arms wrapped around his neck. If he heard either door open or footsteps, he could put her down. His hands could be free and near his belt in seconds. He could even turn around and put her between himself and the wall if enemies came from behind.

The walk down was silence. At the bottom, he put her down and then buckled the spare harness around her. All she did was move her arms as he directed. There was something both convenient and disturbing about her obedience.

After she was secured, he turned the light off and edged the door open. He listened. The running of the river, the rush of traffic overhead, her now far less noisy breathing behind him. He flung the door open and stepped back from it. Nothing changed. He peered around the doorjamb.

His eyes had adjusted to the near pitch black of the stairwell beyond. He could barely make out the outline of the guardrail. He lowered his hand to the belt and moved a dial. The sound of roiling water came from below. He flipped a switch. A whoosh that became a metallic clank echoed up to him.

He held his arm out through the door. Something flashed in the darkness that connected with a snap. The clip of the cable stuck to the surface of his arm guard's magnet. He pulled his arm back inside. The cable followed.

He knelt down in front of the victim. She, finally, had an expression in her eyes again. Wonder mixed with a trace of fear.

He pried the clip off his glove and snapped it onto the ring of her harness. He peered out again, judging the distance one last time. He tossed out a smoke bomb. Then he grabbed her and rushed to the guard rail. She suddenly clung to him. He lowered his voice.

"Scared of heights?"

"N-n-n-n-no."

The hissing sound from the pellet at his feet told him it was running out out of the misting solution. He rested her weight slightly on the rail, reached down, and flipped the switch. The cord retracted until he flipped its control again. The smoke was beginning to dissipate.

"It won't take longer than a minute."

He let go of her, but she didn't let go of him. His jaw tightened. He hardened his tone.

"Let go."

Her arms released him. She swung out and down slightly with a sharp inhale and whimper. He flipped the switch back. She descended faster than he liked, but it might be necessary. The smoke veil was thinning.

He shot his grappling-gun at the ceiling, snapped the cord onto his harness. And jumped after her. He landed on the haul. Reaching out he guided her through the hatch and heard her landing. The motion sensing lights turned on illuminating her figure on the mat floor. He leapt after her, landed, gently pushed her aside, backed away, looked up, and pressed the right button on his belt. The rest of the grappling equipment landed on the mattress with a thump.

The victim yelped and jumped back. He reached up, slammed the hatch shut, went to the controls, and guided the vessel beneath the surface and out from under the bridge before putting it on auto-pilot. The Dark Knight released another breath. Then he turned back to the victim.

"I need to treat those sores and perform a more thorough examination."

. . .

Deadshot entered the elevator and went down to the lobby, through the lobby and out the door, down the street and to the water front, over the bridge walkway and under the bridge, up the stairs and through the door . . . nothing.

There wasn't even a smear of blood or brain matter. Dead-shot's jaw and eyes hardened. His fist clenched around the shells he had carried the entire way. They were nothing.

. . .

Madge stared at the dark entryway, but she heard something before she saw it. The sound seemed too soft to be an engine. It grew clearer rather than louder and then stopped. A shape had moved into the lamplight. The car was so black the lit bulb outlined more than illuminated it. There was a soft whoosh and then a door opened. An equally dark figure appeared and strode around to the other side of the vehicle. With a grin, Madge rose and sprinted for the doorway.

"Hey doc, he's here!"

Madge reached the entrance and saw she had caught his attention. The Bat was staring at her with his mouth pressed into a hard line. He looked just like always, except his mask was missing one of its ear-things. She grinned wider.

"Hi Bat!"

The lines in his face softened slightly. He nodded and then bent down as the passenger side door opened.

"Where's the doctor?"

Madge heard footsteps coming up behind her.

"She's coming. What happened to your mask . . ?"

The Batman had straightened back up with something, someone, in his arms. Madge's eyes flew open, and then hardened.

"What's she doing here?!"

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They tell me what I did right, so I can do more of it and what I did wrong, so I can fix it. **

**Have a meaningful Good Friday, Happy Passover, and Joyful Easter!**

**God Bless**

**ScribeofHeroes**


	17. Chapter 17

**I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth,**** or Dead-Shot. I did create Alice and Madge.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

Baby blue eyes she knew all too well blinked at her. The familiar rat was tightening into a ball, pressing herself into the Bat's chest-piece, and whimpering like a puppy. Madge grit her teeth.

Dr. Thomkins just spoke over her shoulder.

"Is that my patient?"

The Bat nodded. He began to stride towards them still carrying his cowering burden. Madge's jaw dropped.

"You can't let her in here!"

The vigilante paused. His gaze hardened as he met hers.

"She needs to be examined by Dr. Thomkins."

Madge spread herself out. She planted her feet and hands against the door-frame. Batman's eyes narrowed.

"Stand aside."

Sparks lit Madge's eyes. Her mouth curled into a snarl.

"If she gets back to him she'll blab everything! Then the entire city will be in here after you!"

The Dark Knight's gaze and tone gentled.

"We'll take precautions against that. Now, I need you to move."

The red-haired woman glared back at him while raising her chin.

"No."

Something prickled against Madge's skin. She froze. The Doc's voice came from behind her, cold and steady.

"I was going to use this to make my new patient sleep through the night, but I can get another dose."

Madge stopped breathing for a moment. Her fingernails dug into the doorway. Her last objection came out as a hiss.

"She'll get you both killed."

The older woman's voice remained the same.

"She's an injured human being, and I'm a doctor. Move."

Madge stepped forward out of the doorway and away from the touch of the needle. Then she sidestepped, slammed her back into the wood paneling, and crossed her arms. Leslie stood aside, and Batman carried Alice in. Minutes later, Batman came back out. Madge was sitting on the floor, fuming. He knelt down beside her.

"She needed medical treatment."

"You got that right."

"The sedative keeps someone her weight unconscious for eight to twelve hours."

"I hope the doc can pack in that time."

"The victim won't be able to walk without intense pain for more than a week."

Madge gave a bitter half-smile and sniff.

"Hasn't stopped any of us yet."

"Dr. Thomkins is also a psychologist."

Madge's head whipped around to stare at him. The Bat's return gaze was emotionless.

"She'll attempt to help Alice overcome her emotional dependence on Samson."

Madge flung her arm out. Her voice rose to a near shout.

"If it doesn't help, she'll go crying back and tell him everything! And we already know who he tells don't we?"

Madge lowered her chin into her knees and glared into the darkness. The Batman stood up and spoke down to her in a low, even tone.

"She can't tell anyone everything, because she doesn't know everything. We'll keep it that way."

"What about the Doc?"

"I'll discuss further precautions with Dr. Thomkins, but she makes those decisions for herself."

Madge closed her eyes again, and leaned her head back against the wall.

"You both are morons."

The deep voice spoke a final time before his presence slipped away without a sound.

"We are all who we were born and chose to be."

Seconds later, the cars engine hummed to life and sped away. Madge's eyes snapped open as it disappeared.

"_Alice, I will strangle you if you get them killed."_

. . .

Deadshot threw a few silk shirts into the suitcase and slammed it shut. He paused to slug down a shot of scotch. Champagne was his usual beverage of choice, but there was nothing to celebrate tonight. That didn't usually happen to him.

A grin flashed over his face. They always said the kill hardest earned provided the greatest thrill. Perhaps he really owed this "Batman."

His watch chirped. Deadshot began to drag his luggage towards the door. Everything else would have to be left behind. He needed to vacate these accommodations immediately. When he found lodgings elsewhere, he would sign in under another name, with a different look, and speaking with another accent. His french usually got the ladies attention.

. . .

Bruce Wayne donned a wig, glasses, mustache, and hard hat. Then he leaned over to grab the I.D. of a safety inspector with the face he had just created gracing it. That was shoved into the back pocket of his jeans. He was lacing up one of his work-boots when a voice interrupted.

"You should get some sediment on those before wearing them out."

Bruce glanced over his shoulder. Alfred had stepped in to fetch his breakfast tray. The younger man turned and studied his footwear. They were worn, brown-leather, and clean, almost immaculately so. He nodded before continuing.

"I'll do that."

"Going out today then, sir?"

"I have an investigation that needs to be made in the daylight."

The butler nodded, picked up the tray, and turned to leave, Bruce raised his voice while lacing up the other boot.

"Alfred."

The Englishman turned half way around.

"Yes sir?"

"Dr. Thomkins has another in-house patient."

Alfred eyebrows lifted.

"Oh?"

Bruce nodded.

"She may need your aide with her. The patient's hands are recovering from holding her weight for hours."

"I see."

"She's now stable physically, but not mentally."

"And how does my student feel about this?

Bruce's mouth tightened.

"She has a history with the patient, a bad one. She was a fellow victim and information gatherer for their abuser."

"Well, that does rather put a wrench in things, doesn't it?"

. . .

Madge stabbed at the scrambled eggs she'd made for herself. She scowled at the forkful as if it was scum. Her head shot up as the door to the basement creaked open. Leslie Thomkins stepped in. Madge went back to staring at her plate with a bored expression.

"Has sleeping beauty woken up, yet?"

The physician nodded.

"She needed a little help to the toilet, drank some water, and now needs something in her stomach."

Madge stuck the bite of egg into her mouth without replying. Dr. Thomkins walked towards the toaster. She retrieved a loaf of bread from the cabinet above it, and then began to speak in her psychologist voice.

"Is it simply concern for us, or is personal experience another source of your anger towards her?"

Madge slammed her fork down on her plate.

"She may look like the most innocent thing on earth, but she hands you over to a monster."

"I see."

"Don't try to shrink my head doc. You have all you can handle with her."

Leslie looked up from the bread browning in her toaster. The younger woman had refused to make eye contact with her their entire conversation. Leslie looked away with a soundless sigh. She had no intentions of giving up on the other girl, but, she feared attempting to help this new patient might undo all the progress of the old.

. . .

Within sight of the bridge, Bruce got out of the pick-up with the Gotham Department of Public Works insignia on its side. He studied the structure from the parking spot. The night before he had taken the shortcut via his submarine. Today he would take the long way around.

. . .

"Believe it or not, caring for this young woman is an excellent opportunity. Several employer's take on servants because they can no longer do for themselves. You may end up in a position similar to the one we find ourselves in today."

"Yaaaaaaaay."

Madge did nothing to change the scowl on her face. Not only did she have to live with the twit under the same roof again, she had to wait on her hand and foot, literally. Her teacher acted as if she had replied with full sincerity.

"Now the first thing to do is make a tray."

. . .

Bruce stepped out onto the bridge walkway where he had thought he was dying hours before. After a brief inspection, he found the bullets wedged in the iron. His eyes widened.

They were high-impact even for sniper-caliber. He pried them out with tweezers, studied them, and then dropped both into the plastic bag. Sealing the bag shut, he turned to stare at the buildings across from the impact point and made a list.

. . .

"I am so, so sorry!"

Alice's bottom lip was quivering. Big drops were filling her baby blues. Madge leaned against the doorpost feeling like she was going to throw up. Mr. Pennyworth, however, sat with perfect posture while lifting a spoonful of soup toward the young woman's mouth.

"Not to worry, Miss. I once had to do this for a chap who had both his arms blown off during the war."

Madge and Alice's jaws dropped. Alfred took the opportunity to stick the spoon inside the patient's mouth. Eventually, Alice swallowed and her eyes widened again.

"Is . . . is this homemade?"

"That it is."

Madge blinked at the pair, her brow re-furrowing. Alice was suddenly beaming.

"I haven't had homemade soup in forever! What did you put in it?"

"Can you guess?"

Alfred stuck another spoonful into her mouth and the young woman chewed and swallowed more slowly.

"Fresh parsley and home-made noodles!"

Alfred nodded.

"Anything else?"

After another taste Alice replied.

"Garden grown carrots."

The manservant nodded.

"Indeed."

Madge spun away and left the room.

. . .

Bruce stood on the top of the last building on his mental list, nothing. He turned to look up at the skyscraper behind it. Higher, a good view for the view-seeker, but for a shooter? After he arrived there, he changed his mind. Hours blown to learn what he now realized he should have known from the beginning.

. . .

"I could not help noticing your mind was not fully on our lessons today."

Alfred and Madge were doing the dishes side by side for the twentieth time and the latter was maintaining a stony silence she had only broken that day to spew sarcasm.

"I'm not overly fond of my homework."

"Can I trust you with it?"

"It's not me you should worry about."

"Would it interest you to know that Dr. Thomkins briefed me on why I should exercise caution around the young lady downstairs?"

"You could have fooled me."

A sly smile crept over the man's face.

"If you are truly concerned about her loyalties and tongue, Miss Robertson, might I suggest a different strategy?"

"Such as?"

"The best way to put an enemy on their guard, is to make it clear you are their enemy. If you wish them to plot in your presence, you must seem either on their side, or no threat."

"And you know this because?"

"My dear, there are some questions you do not ask."

. . .

_Deadshot _

It had to be. There was no other this good or this arrogant. The only thing missing was the casing, but then . . . Bruce smiled to himself. He left those behind when he hit his target. The grin disappeared with vigilante's next thought.

_His reputation is to never miss . . . _

Bruce rubbed his chin in thought. Deadshot only worked on contract, no personal vendetta, until now. He had not fulfilled the contract. Another could be taken out on him. It would be the smart thing for the assassin to leave. But would the assassin do what would preserve his health, or his pride? Bruce's hand dropped from his face as his eyes slid shut.

Deadshot would not be leaving.

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They tell me what I did right, so I can do more of it and what I did wrong, so I can fix it. **

**God Bless**

**ScribeofHeroes**


	18. Chapter 18

**I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, or Dead-Shot. I did create Alice and Madge.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

**Sorry this update took so long. I got caught up in other projects. Hope it is worth the wait. :)**

Batman stared at the keyboard of the bat-cave's computer for several minutes. The information and aid to be gained could prove invaluable. If any deserved to fall into her hands it was Deadshot. Still, he had to choke down a little bile as he began typing.

"Are you there?"

He moved the cursor over "send" and clicked. Within a minute, a return message appeared on the screen.

"Who is this?"

He typed a single word and hit "send" again.

"Gotham."

Thirty seconds passed, then . . .

"Of course." Fifteen seconds later, a full sentence followed. "Is this a request or a threat?"

He bent back over the keyboard.

"Request. All information gathered on 'Deadshot'."

He could almost see those venomous eyes light up.

"You think he's there?"

"Yes."

"Is he after you?"

"Yes."

"Avoid the outdoors and windows."

"Not possible."

"Then either do not look like his target or give him too easy a shot."

"I need to find him."

"What do I get for the information?"

"Him."

"Nice offer. Would prefer you though."

"No."

"I can send a team to retrieve him myself."

"Go ahead."

"Are you hacking my system for the data right now?"

"Perhaps."

"May the games begin."

He broke the connection between his and the almost as heavily encrypted server he had indeed hacked. Then he leaned back and came to terms with seeing her again. She would come herself for a prize like Deadshot. He almost felt sorry for the assassin. If there had been anyone else . . . but she was used to handling threats like Deadshot. She was one of the few he could trust to contain him. That was one thing he could trust her to do.

. . .

"Your hands should be recovered by this time tomorrow." Madge watched the doc study the patient's fingers, palms, and wrists. Alice's eyes shone at the doc's proclamation.

"Really?"

"Yes, but the recovery of your feet will take longer." Alice drooped. Dr. Thomkins smiled at her. "You should be able to feed yourself again.

Madge growled from the doorway. "Thank goodness." Then she turned and strode out into the basement and up the stairs into the kitchen. The voice still followed her.

"Is the kitchen close by? Can I walk there soon?"

Madge sped up. Her footfalls drowned out any sound behind her.

. . .

Bruce Wayne stood in the center of a ring of roll-away post-boards. Each was covered with crime-scene photos, case reports, victim profiles, and profiles of the self-employed sniper known as "Deadshot." The latter were written by profilers from the FBI, CIA, MI6, and Interpol.

Shootings attributed to "Deadshot" spanned a little over ten years and almost always took place in major cities; London, Venice, Hong-Kong, Rio De Janerio, Paris, Rome, Cape Town, Moscow, and Metropolis. The victims had little in common. They were tycoons, celebrities, playboys, models, politicians, activists, and the occasional general. They were diverse in race, political associations, and their prominence in the public eye. However, all of them had been shot between the eyes with identical ammunition fired from the same gun.

In spite of the similarity of the killings, authorities often wasted hours or days attempting to locate the point the shot had been taken from. The usual methods of finding such a place did not work when dealing with this Deadshot. An expert on the sniper was usually the one to find the shell casing. The shining cylinder with "D.S." carved into was always found a greater distance from the target than thought possible, in an awkward vantage point to shoot from, and with some obstacle in the way.

Most of this Bruce had known before. The assassin was someone to know about if you studied modern crime and criminals. The possibility of becoming his target had not escaped him when he started this crusade, but he had not expected it to come so soon. The Batman must have made someone with resources feel threatened indeed. Bruce glanced over his shoulder.

Behind him were several more boards. These were also covered with a mixture of mug-shots, newspaper articles, and crime scene photos. Each represented a different criminal organization that operated in Gotham. He looked back to the board in front of him. That "who" did not matter now. He needed to concentrate on finding Deadshot himself. The assassin would now be more desperate than his employer. The desperate were dangerous. He should know.

His attention was caught by a certain thread of investigation. In each area a killing had taken place, a hotel had been checked into by a similar patron. Caucasian male between 6' and 6' 4''. The man always managed to keep security cameras from catching his face by wearing hates with brims and sunglasses in hot climates. The best room in the establishment was always reserved for him by someone else.

A few sketches had been done from the memories of witnesses. He always wore the finest and latest fashions appropriate for each location. He changed aliases, hair color, and accent. He messed with his height with hats and likely shoes lifts as well. But he always had the same build, lean and athletic. Other than having outstanding reputations, the resorts and hotels themselves had little in common. The man seemed obsessed with trying new things, as long as they were the best. Bruce stabbed pins into a few spots on his map of Gotham City.

. . .

Lucius nervously watched his old student and current boss repair his own equipment. The antennae disguised as a bat-ear had not just been damaged. It had been completely taken off.

They had specifically chosen materials to make sure that would never happen. Yet, on inspecting the bullet Bruce claimed had done the deed, the hybrid Scientist and Businessman had ceased being amazed. He now rolled the slug between his glove-covered fingertips.

"This sniper's gotten away with how many murders?"

"Close to a hundred in ten years."

"How does he do it?"

Bruce removed his safety goggles to examine his work.

"Aliases, a set up created for him by his current employer, and a psychopathic mindset that lets him lie and kill without visible tells."

Bruce set down his work, satisfied. Lucius put the bullet back into its evidence bag.

"How do you always end up pitted against those?"

"As Lord Tennyson wrote, 'Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die.'"

Lucius leaned back against a wall and crossed his arms.

"I always hated that poem."

Bruce actually chuckled.

A half smile appeared on Bruce's face.

"Did you make those calls?"

"I did. Do you know how many white men between 6' and 6'4'' check into each luxury hotel in Gotham City on a daily basis? However, there was one who stood out. The best suite of the Gotham Palace was reserved in advance for a non-regular who left with half his stuff nine hours ago and has yet to come back for the other half."

Bruce's head jerked up to meet the other man's eyes.

"They have him on tape?"

Lucius gave a curt nod.

"Already watched it. He was always wearing a brimmed hat tipped down over his eyes that blocked the camera's view of his face."

Bruce stood up from the work table.

"I'd like to look at the footage myself."

Fox smiled.

"Help yourself, Mr. Wayne."

. . .

Bruce fast-forwarded to the time stamp Lucius had written down. He had slow-motioned, freeze-framed, and rewound the tapes so many times a few frames had begun to show wear. He had learned more than expected, but less than he had hoped for.

There was no frame where anything was visible of the face. The man always held his head at an angle keeping the cameras focused on the back of it for four out of five angles. The hat brim blocked the upper two-thirds of the face in the fifth. The chin was covered in an easily shaved goatee.

There was something in the figure's saunter, though. The man moved with relaxed casualness, yet no movement was without purpose. Though he was shy with the cameras, he had no problem making eye contact with others, and staring at attractive women he passed, even if they were being escorted by someone else. There was no body language that indicated inner turmoil, hidden nerves, or a need to connect on an emotional level with other human beings. These things did not equal proof, but he was almost certain. He had seen just enough men who gained confidence from killing to recognize the signs.

. . .

What were they thinking? Why didn't they just dump her on someone else? Send her somewhere, like the West coast.

Madge turned over in the bed that was just beginning to feel familiar. It wasn't like she couldn't appreciate their generous hearts, but there was a big difference between helping someone and turning your back around so they could stab you in it. She punched her pillow with the excuse of fluffing it and set her head back down.

Why wouldn't they listen to her? Madge's mind drifted back to that first night, that walk home, her threat to hock his cape. She rolled back over. Man! Why hadn't he punched her in the mouth for that?

_Because he doesn't do that. None of them do. They don't give people what they deserve. They give them what they need and then some, even the ones with knives. They live dangerously like that._

Madge thought she could feel something stabbing her, but not in the back, in the chest. She threw the covers off. That's it! She was done.

She stripped and dug around in the drawers of the dresser. There was nothing in here for walking the streets! She found a blouse with a little lace, tights, and and a black skirt. No heels, she'd have to make do without them, maybe with enough undone buttons of the blouse it wouldn't matter.

She slid the dresser drawers shut, got dressed in record time, and slipped out the bedroom door. She wouldn't take anything else. She'd have left in the clothes she'd arrived in if they had still been around. She hoped they would realize this. All they had tried to do was appreciated. But when Alice, or someone else they took in, did what people do to the trusting type she was not going to be the one to find the corpse and clean up the mess.

She got to the front door, opened it, stepped out onto the porch . . . A shadow moved across the street. She stared at it with an open mouth. It took a full minute to realize it was being cast by some laundry hanging on a line that had moved in a breeze. She shut the door and leaned back against it.

None of the possibilities that frightened ordinary people, drunks, druggies, mobsters, muggers, rapists had been what made her first thought. She had met members from all those categories a couple of times or more. Tapping her head back against the wood paneling, she let the truth about what had made her stop breathing for a moment sink in. She had thought it was The Bat.

Why had that scared her? Wasn't she way past being scared of him. Sorta. But . . . she hadn't wanted him to catch her leaving. She hadn't wanted him to see her leaving because she cared what he thought about her. She cared, because he cared.

If he, sooner or later, found her mess to clean up out there, he would care a lot. She didn't want to think about that. But, could she keep herself from thinking about it? Then there were the others, Doc and Teach. They would probably care too. A groan echoed through the hall as her head bowed to land on her knees. She wasn't . . . free.

For years she had been free. Nobody cared. So it hadn't matter where she went, what she did, what happened to her. Nobody gave a . . . But now they did.

It wasn't fair. What was she supposed to do? Just go from being a hooker our for herself to a decent citizen and good friend, just like that? She'd never had to be that before! She slumped further down on the welcome mat and stared into the darkness.

_What are you going to do Madge girl?_

. . .

Alfred knew he should turn off the monitor. Leslie had just barely let him, Lucius, and Bruce put in the camera for the entryway. And this was no burglar or killer who had opened the door and set the alarm off in the cave. This was his young student obviously in the middle of some crisis.

That was why he could not make the image disappear. If she walked out again, they would need to respect her choice. She was no prisoner. They could feed her, train her, finance her attempts at trying something new. They could not force her to stay and accept any of it.

Master Bruce had been clear about them not crossing that line. And he was not one to do so himself. However, Master Bruce would be miserable not crossing it with this young lady if she walked out. And if he found her in worse condition than he had already found her in before . . . Alfred's unblinking gaze remained fixed to the screen.

_Please, do not give him another burden to carry, Miss Robertson._

Finally, the young woman got up. Stomping and moving her lips like she was muttering to herself she moved further inside the building and out of camera view. The manservant's shoulders sank slightly. One side of his mustache was quirked up by a half smile.

_Thank you . . ._

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They tell me what I did right, so I ****can do more of it and what I did wrong, so I can fix it. **

**God Bless**

**ScribeofHeroes**


	19. Chapter 19

**I do not own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Martha Wayne, Thomas Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Lucius Fox, or Gotham. Except for the painting of Gotham Bay, I used real works of art for the contents of Gotham Art Museum. I don't own these either.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only. So please read and be entertained.**

Alfred stepped through the doorway. He lifted an eyebrow at the sight of Madge with her head lolled to one side sliding a pencil point over a page of her sketchpad. The young lady spoke without looking at him. Her voice sounded as apathetic as her pose. "Hey teach. What are we doing today?"

Alfred turned towards the coat-rack and began unwinding the scarf wrapped around his neck. "I was informed I would wait on our gentle patient downstairs while you take the day off and go out, Miss Robertson."

Madge sat up and stared at the Englishman. "While I do what?"

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Madge looked up. Dr. Thomkins was striding down towards them wrapped in a coat, though its buttons were still undone. "You're going out with me today. Alfred will stay with Alice."

Madge's eyebrows flew up her forehead. Her complexion went pale as she remained where she was, gripping her sketchpad so the pages crinkled. Leslie turned her gaze upon Alfred and then back to the younger woman. "Don't worry about leaving the two of them alone together. Mr. Pennyworth has handled far more dangerous individuals by himself."

Alfred cocked one eyebrow at Leslie. She ignored it by continuing to look at Madge, who rolled her eyes at them both. "Where are we going 'out' to?"

The corners of Leslie's mouth quirked up. "Someplace I imagine you would rather be than in this house after staying in it for a month straight, Miss Robertson."

Madge made a face. Then she shrugged, slapped her notebook down on the coffee table, and rose from the couch. "Why not, let's go out."

_Can't go anyplace worse than I've already been._

. . .

He needed to get out. Acting scared was not his style. Being out and about enjoying himself was. Still, perhaps not his usual scene, not just yet. He needed a place to help him think, where he could stay alert, someplace empty of the usual distractions. He glanced over the map he had used before and smiled when his eyes rested on a certain landmark.

. . .

Madge sat in the front seat of a twenty-year-old sedan in miraculously good condition. She felt like an impostor. The clothes Leslie had laid out for her had a classy, but mundane look. She would blend in, showing little skin. That combination had never been her style.

The young woman stared out the window as dingy buildings whizzed by. They reminded her of the clothes she was wearing, outmoded, but still commanding respect. The same could be said of her host and driver. A smirk played over Madge's lips at the thought. Leslie glanced at her guest before looking back to the road.

"What are you thinking about, young lady?"

The smirk widened as Madge sank back into the passenger seat. "Nothing."

A slight smile curved Leslie's lips. "Try to keep enjoying yourself."

Madge leaned further back in her seat. "So, where are we going, Doc?"

Leslie Thomkins nodded to a "visit Gotham" sign along the road. "There."

. . .

Bruce strolled down the hallway. He hoped the glued-on facial hair, faded and frayed clothing, and twitchy movements made him look like someone just trying to avoid going back outside. Since Gotham's economy sank far below national average, this museum, open to the public, was frequented by such types. There were security guards who attempted to sweep and remove such individuals under the clause of "No intoxicated persons allowed on premises" rule. The sober or almost sober found ways to keep moving against these security guards' routes.

Bruce told himself he should show disinterest in the displays surrounding him. But then, it was not impossible for someone seeking respite from extreme weather conditions to also appreciate art. He rather hoped that was the case. The thought of someone coming in out of the elements and finding themselves moved by an exhibit Martha Wayne had brought to Gotham for them pleased her son.

Some pieces Bruce did pass without a glance. He had not been impressed with these when he first saw them as a child, and they were as familiar to him as the portraits and landscapes hanging in Wayne mansion. Other pieces he did stop to study for the hundredth time.

Within view of the museum's front entrance hung an early depiction of Gotham Bay. Merchant ships sailed out from and into a ball of golden light illuminating all else. Dark waves lapped below docks crowed with fisherman, sailors, and those waiting to meet or see off a vessel. The piece spoke of mystery, adventure, optimism.

Bruce had expected to no longer be charmed by the piece. However, his feet paused and eyes fixed themselves to the scene. It was almost as if one of the fishermen had cast out a line that had then traveled beyond the frame, into the third dimension, and through a pupil of Bruce's eye snagging his attention.

"Can I help you sir?"

Bruce turned. Lucuis Fox stood beside him. The older man was wearing an amused expression on his face and a "tour guide" identification badge on his lapel.

Bruce looked away from the other man's gaze. He hunched more, itched at the back of his neck, and shook his head. The older gentleman gave a bland smile. Then he lowered his voice so no one else would hear him over the classical music playing through the building's speaker system._"Don't worry. The disguise works . . . for the most part, but it doesn't hide your height and build."_

Bruce jerked his head up and down in a nod. His colleague was correct. The boots of the bat-suit gave him another inch in height, causing him to tower over most. The ear-antennae on the cowl made him appear taller still. Adding height to a human figure was far easier than diminishing it. Appearing under six-foot-two through any means but poor posture was a challenge for him. As for build, adding was easier than diminishing there, as well. However, muscle mass was too great an asset to sacrifice for disguise.

Beside him, Lucuis looked from his employer to the artwork before them._"Plus, you're staring at your favorite painting."_

Without looking at the older man, Bruce mumbled under his breath and into his hand. _"This was never my favorite."_

Lucius stared at the painting for another moment, then gave a slow nod._"Ah Yes. Turner's 'Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus'_ _was."_

Bruce nodded. Lucius lowered his voice further still. _"This one must still have special significance."_

Bruce nodded a second time.

. . .

His father's aftershave and mother's perfume drifted down to fill the five year old's nostrils. He was craning his neck up to see "Gotham Bay 1878." His father glanced down and picked him up. Once upon the man's shoulders, Bruce had to look slightly down to study the painting. Now his father's low, deep voice reverberated up to him. The pillar of the city spoke of Gotham's past, ships with sails instead of engines, dangerous voyages, and families that waited years for loved ones to return with foreign treasures.

His mother stepped closer to them and pointed out details like the stars on a flag and a whistle protruding from a sea-captain's lips. Words like "emphasis," "color," and "historical accuracy" echoed off the walls, floor, and ceiling. Martha Wayne's silver eyes shone. Her long fingers gestured toward the painting. Thomas Wayne turned away from the artwork to watch his wife with a smug grin as if to tell all observers "Yes, she's mine." Their son glanced down when his perch shifted beneath him, but then looked back to the disappearing ships daydreaming of the far-off places his father had mentioned.

. . .

Twenty-three year old Bruce blinked.

The museum's main doors were swinging open. Two women entered. One was in her mid-fifties to early sixties. The other was in her early to mid twenties. Both were dressed on the dowdy side. The older woman wore it a bit better than the younger. The latter moved as if she wasn't used to wearing flats, or not exhibiting her body, or having so many layers pull at her limbs.

Bruce took a few steps in their direction and then turned to lean against a wall and stare at the watercolor in front of him as if he didn't really see it. The newly arrived redhead was still standing in front of the doors.

She had considered disappearing, and then changed her mind. The former barely surprised him. The latter . . . encouraged.

Her body language contrasted with her disguise. She wasn't used to playing a mixture of proper lady and professional woman. She let her head swerve until she was staring at a particular work of art. Then she stepped closer to it. Her head tilted to the side.

Bruce's breath stilled a moment. Something tugged at the back of his mind.

. . .

"Mooooooom . . . this painting is boring."

The red-head's hands went to her hips, but her darker scarlet lips grinned as she looked down to meet his gaze. "Is it now? I will have you know the cost of insuring it makes this establishment's accountant blanch."

The boy huffed. Then he pointed down the hall. "Can't we go see 'Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus'?"

Mrs. Wayne attempted to hide her pride over how the seven-year-old said the painting's title without stumbling over a syllable in the names from Greek myth. However, the corners of Martha's mouth turned up. One dimple even popped into being. She did manage to keep the glint out of her eyes long enough to ask a question. "And who was that masterpiece painted by?"

Bruce smirked up at her. "J. M. W. Turner."

Martha's struggle to contain her pride now heightened further still. "And what is it about that particular painting of his that holds your interest so?"

A grin like Martha's own but wider flashed over the boy's face. "Its adventurous!"

Not only her eyes, but the woman's whole face lit up. She laughed and reached out to take his hand. "Yes, yes it is."

Bruce gripped her longer fingers in his own and bolted down the hall. As she strode down the hallways after him, Bruce kept tugging at his mother. A bit of alarm caught hold of him every time her head turned and steps slowed to look at a few other pieces of artwork they passed.

. . .

Leslie had paused before a tiny sign. Lucius bent over Bruce's bowed head. He whispered so someone within a few feet could overhear.

"_Just try not to get in the way of this tour."_

Bruce nodded. Lucius walked off to approach the two women. The older gave him a brief nod and stood with the relaxed poise of one familiar with the other. The younger stood a bit rigid. Her head snapped about to stare at the newcomer. Her eyes scanned him up and down. Lucius bowed at the waist to them both.

"May I offer you ladies a guided tour of the Gotham Museum of Art?"

The elder of the pair nodded. "Yes, I think we would enjoy that immensely."

The younger woman's eyebrows rose, but she said nothing. Bruce leaned against a wall and studied Madge's features as she passed him. The shape of her face was similar. The contour of the nose was different, though. Cynicism seemed to waft off Madge with her expressionless eyes and mouth. Yet, her posture was more open and less straight. These were near opposites of everything he could recall about the other red-headed art-lover.

He leaned back into the wall and looked in the opposite direction of Madge's retreating form, as one should occasionally do when following someone. No, there was really not much similarity. Even if there had been, it would only be an oddity.

Madge had stuck her hands in her pockets. Eyes scanning up, down, and side to side, she strolled by "Study of Two Heads." One eyebrow rose at the sight of "The Feast of Acheloüs." She took another step and froze. The other eyebrow flew up as her jaw tightened and nostrils flared.

. . .

Martha Wayne paused before the painting. Her usual grin fell away. Her brow furrowed, lips pressed together, jaw clenched, and grip tightened a bit around his hand. Bruce looked up at the painting and paled slightly. Then he tugged at his mother's arm again.

"Come on, Mom. Let's go see _'Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus'_!"

Martha looked down from the canvas and nodded. "Of course." But as they left she glanced over her shoulder and glared again before looking back to where her son was dragging her.

. . .

After a few seconds, Madge turned away and tossed her hair. Bruce smiled before he caught himself. One should not smile in the direction of Ruben's "Massacre of the Innocents." There were a few similarities it seemed. Having a spirit like Martha Wayne's could carry Madge far. His usually tight muscles relaxed a bit. Perhaps this first trial of getting a stepped-upon Gothamite back on her feet would not end in failure after all. And perhaps he could come to trust Madge with her own life as much as he had found he could trust her with his.

. . .

As Lucius stood before and commented on "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus," Madge glimpsed something out of the corner of her eye that seemed out of place. She turned her gaze in its direction. The red-head's brows furrowed. When she looked back to their tour guide he had stopped speaking. She made eye-contact with the guy in the suit and name-tag, before jabbing a thumb at the wall to her right.

"What are those?"

Lucius glanced in the indicated direction and nodded. "Ah." He strode across the hall and gestured to the squares of paper behind glass. "These are political cartoons drawn between the 19th and 20th centuries. Martha Wayne included them in this collection to show that art can reflect, display, and even epitomize the outrage of a time and place in history."

Madge first blinked, then stared, and finally scanned every drawing with her eyes. Her attention was grabbed by scenes of royals carving up the world, men eating men, and a tiger holding a woman face down in the sand of an arena. A few of the figures had impossible proportions, others were monsters, yet many were figures from history even she could recognize. But there was something else familiar about these drawings. She stepped closer to the depiction of the woman being pinned down by the tiger. An image popped into her mind of a dragon blowing fire into a familiar face.

_I could do this . . ._

Madge jerked back. Then stepped away from the display. The thought had been a whisper so quiet she almost hadn't heard it. The following response in her head was much louder. _Yeah right . . . _

Madge turned back to her companion and tour guide. "Are we going to look at anything else?"

Lucius turned to face the end of the hall. "This way." He began walking towards the doorway. Madge sauntered several paces behind him. Leslie shut her eyes, clenched her hands in her pockets, and sighed. She then also turned and followed behind Madge. Once the three had disappeared down a different hall, Bruce looked down to the toes of his shoes and began to amble towards the doorway to the same hall.

. . .

A door of the museum's main entrance swung open. A man of above average height and a sinewy build hidden beneath clothes of far-above average price-range entered. His eyebrows rose. His surroundings were neither as up-to-date nor as ornate as he preferred. He thought about exiting and finding another establishment to wander. Then he shrugged.

Ah well, the less reason to expect anyone else to think to look for him here. He stepped forward. The sniper glanced at a few pieces. He paused to raise his eyebrows and let a slight smile play over his lips in front of Ruben's "Massacre of the Innocents." Then he strolled through the doorway Bruce had passed through minutes before.

A few rooms later he wandered into a room full of sculptures, but his attention was caught by a form and face of flesh.

_Well what do you know about that?_

_. . ._

"This room is devoted to the works of Edmonia Lewis an internationally celebrated sculptor of the 1800s."

"Is this her?"

Madge was pointing to a photograph of a black woman. Lucius Fox stepped up to her side and nodded. "Indeed it is."

Madge started reading the information on the plaques underneath the photograph, and in front of the statues. At a few points her eyebrows flew up and she found herself more interested in the words than the artwork.

_This is better than a novel._

"Hello there."

Madge jerked her head up to look at the guy staring at her. She frowned more at herself than him.

_When did I get so bad about noticing a gu__y sta__nding within a few inches from me?_

Madge's body tensed. Her eyes scanned the man up and down with more attention than she had paid any of the works of art. He was tall, almost as tall as The Bat. Brown hair, brown eyes, chiseled face that hinted at a chiseled form beneath the suit, but she didn't like him. She recognized the way he was staring at her. His grin widened.

"So, where are you staying?"

"With me."

Leslie stepped up to her other side and made direct, unblinking eye-contact with the man. He looked away first, but only to look her up and down. Then he chuckled.

"You her mother?"

"A friend."

Madge felt a tickle of irritation at being left out of a conversation about herself. She looked to Leslie. "I'm fine _mom_."

"He isn't."

The guy laughed again, straightening up to his full height after leaning down on a railing in front of the display Madge had been reading the plaque for. He turned his back on the statue and met the older woman's gaze again. "And what makes you say that?"

Leslie didn't look away from his gaze as she replied or blink. "Experience."

He laughed again, then tipped his hat at them both. "Be seeing you both, real soon."

. . .

He grinned as he left the two girls behind with the statues, some of which had been of other pretty ladies he wished were flesh rather than stone.

At first he hadn't thought he could possibly be that lucky, but he was. That lady had been the one with her picture in the Gotham Gazette. He had just scanned the headline, photograph and moved on while reading his copy yesterday morning, but that was definitely her. And from what he had read, she was just what he needed. A plan began to form in the sniper's mind as he strode for the nearest exit.

_Might as well get to work._

. . .

It was too much of a coincidence. His mind was playing tricks on him. Leslie herself had warned him about that. Perhaps, he should ask her if the man he had watched approach Madge and laugh at her had been real. But if he was . . . the height, the gait, the stalking of attractive females in his path, even the chill in his mocking laugh, everything fit.

Bruce pushed off the railing he had been leaning against and this time followed the man he only thought he knew, rather than the women he did.

**Sorry this chapter took so long to post. I struggled to find inspiration and artwork that fit with the world, characters, and storyline. **

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They tell me what I did right, so I can do more of it and what I did wrong, so I can fix it. **

**God Bless**

_**ScribeofHeroes**_


	20. Chapter 20

**I do not own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Martha Wayne, Thomas Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Lucius Fox, Deadshot, or Gotham. I did create Madge, Alice, Mrs. Grant, and Elizabeth Wayne, Thomas Wayne's elder sister who died in childhood from a sickness. Though I made up the contents of the two specifically mentioned exhibits in this chapter, the two specifically mentioned artists near the end of the chapter are real. **

**T****his story is for entertainment purposes only. So please read and be entertained.**

Bruce shoved the metal door open and stepped into the alleyway beyond. The man who had exited before him was striding toward the sidewalk. The man turned back to look at him. Bruce stepped further out, released the door, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. The other man stiffened.

The metallic door slammed shut with a clang that echoed against the stone and brick walls. The other man began to reach up toward the inside pocket of his own jacket. Then Bruce pulled a lighter out of his. Eyes now focused on the mouth of the same pocket, he continued to dig in it with a few mumbled words.

The other man let his hand drop to his side, rolled his eyes, and turned back towards the sidewalk. There were not so many people passing by there that jostling among them was inevitable. Yet, there were enough that one more could go unnoticed.

Bruce continued to dig in his pocket. His muttering was getting louder, but the words were still indecipherable. In his peripheral vision, he saw the other man pause to look to the right and left before leaving the alleyway. Anyone unfamiliar with the area might do so. It could mean nothing, or something.

Bruce noted the direction he went. Five seconds after the other man's form had disappeared behind the corner of the next building, Bruce pretended to give up on finding the cigarettes that had never been in his pocket. He buried his hands themselves in his outer pockets, hunched his shoulders, and stomped over litter until his shoes left asphalt and landed onto concrete. He glanced up.

Yards beyond a now familiar hat bobbed above other heads. Bruce looked down at his feet and walked after it. He glanced up every four to five steps, avoiding collisions with other pedestrians and keeping the hat in sight. Once he thought it had disappeared. Then he saw its wearer crossing the street. There, the man continued in the same direction as before. They walked parallel to each other for a few minutes. Bruce remained some yards behind the man. Then he crossed the street at a different intersection. Soon after, the other man began turning corners. Bruce turned the same. Finally, the other man ducked into another alley.

When Bruce reached the same alley, he stumbled before the opening. His hand reached out to rest his weight against a cinder-block wall. He glanced up. The tail of an expensive jacket was disappearing around the corner of the opposite building.

Bruce pushed himself off the wall and staggered after it watching only his feet. By the time he had turned the corner himself, he just saw a flash of the jacket swish around another brick wall. Bruce stumbled to the same corner and paused before turning it.

He ran through his memories of the area. This next alley was flanked by apartment buildings and led to a dead end. Was the man renting one of the apartments? Deadshot should be attempting to keep himself from being found by whoever hired him now. This man's dress and tastes would stand out here as much as a gold watch would hanging from a clothesline.

Bruce listened. If the man entered one of these apartments, there should be a groan of weight on metal stairways followed by the creak of hinges turning. Silence. Bruce frowned. Then a sound did echo to him on the still air.

_Click._

Bruce stiffened. Deadshot was here to fill another contract. Bruce spun around the corner and froze.

Thin lips were curled into a smirk. Above that a straight nose was bracketed by high cheekbones. No goatee covered the chin below these features, but the mustache remained. A pair of dark brown eyes stared at him. Their black centers glinted along with the silver nozzle aimed at Bruce's chest. The colt looked more like an accessory than a weapon, but Bruce had no doubt it worked. The smirking lips above it moved.

"Well, well, well . . ."

. . .

"What are these?"

Madge's brows furrowed. A bunch of crayon and pencil drawings hung on the walls along with some splotchy water colors. In short, all the pieces in _this_ museum exhibit screamed "amateur."

Their tour guide motioned to a plague on the wall. "This might explain the display, Miss." Madge bent down to read the message carved into the rectangle of bronze.

_Works of art created by patients of Elizabeth Wayne Memorial Hospital. _

_As a person struggles against disease or recovers from trauma, art can be an outlet for the spectrum of emotions inside them as well as those inside the people who stay and fight by their side. This exhibit attempts to honor this function of art and those who produced it._

Madge felt her cheeks warm. She drew back from the plague, straightened, and glanced around. She gave each piece that caught her eye a few seconds of study. She noted the drawing of a sad face poking out of a simplistic hospital cot. Her eyes widened slightly at a crayon drawing of a giant needle with narrowed eyes and fangs. Madge's gaze lingered longest on a picture of a boy jumping on his hospital bed with a huge grin as two larger figures, a man and woman, stood by grinning as well. A few "congratulations" balloons were scattered about and a nurse was wheeling in a chair the patient did not seem to need any longer.

. . .

Deadshot had completely ignored reaching his destination for blocks. He would find his way back. Memorizing maps and layouts had never been difficult for him. Knowing the terrain of the urban jungle where the hunt would take place was as necessary to the profession as steady hands and clear vision. Understanding the area better than native prey took time, but a newcomer often saw things those overused to them no longer noticed. Few realized their favored watering-hole could be seen through a scope blocks away and several floors up.

He had first noticed the man who had exited after him in a reflection of a custom tailor's window display. The contrast of the images could not have been greater. A beautiful tuxedo ensemble was suddenly obscured by the image of a man with the build of a wrestler wearing a hooded sweater, faded jacket, jeans with spots torn and frayed to loose threads, and shoes with holes the size of dimes. A man who indulged in cigarettes without being able to afford decent evening wear had no self-respect. Upon seeing him the second time, the sniper walked on while trying to keep an eye on the ill-dressed smoker in other reflective surfaces. He had turned a corner and the other man did the same. As the ill-dressed pedestrian had repeated his action again and again, Deadhot had begun to grin.

_Oh this was rich, too rich. _

After the pattern had continued for some time, the assassin had led his pursuer to a worse part of the city before stepping into an alley. Then Deadshot had kept turning down alleys until he reached a dead end. There, he had only had to turn around and pull out his colt. It had been years since he used this beauty for anything but target practice. Perhaps she was as eager for blood as he. When the sniper had clicked the safety off, his shadow had leapt around the corner.

Dead-shot didn't even try to stop the smirk that spread over his lips at the way his stalker's eyes widened. He did manage to keep the chuckle inside from entering his voice as more than a note of amusement. "Well, well, well . . . _You_ my friend have taken the prize for picking the worst mark in this city to rob today. You want my wallet?"

He reached inside his jacket pocket. Funny, this little adventure had begun with the other man doing the same thing. The irony was delicious.

Deadshot drew out his wallet and almost tossed it at the man. After another moment of consideration, he instead raised it above his head. His smirk widened. _Have a good look at how it bulges. And no, it isn't stuffed with family photographs. _

Of course, the man would have to look away from the gun pointed at him to truly appreciate the sight. Deadshot was both impressed and amused at how the mugger did just that. A glint of interest appeared in the bum's red, bleary eyes. He must not have been faking his earlier stumbling and groaning then.

Though it would not be the kind the man had come looking for, he could certainly provide relief for his condition. Deadshot raised the colt slightly. The heart was too easy, especially at this distance. He aimed at the little area between the eyes and just above the nose.

The mugger took an extraordinarily long time to react. Then he raised a hand to lean against the nearby wall, and gave a nervous smile mixed with a wince. "Don't need that. Put it away, so I can make my feet move again. Then I'll split." The thief jerked his head in the direction of the way he had come.

A jolt ofexcitement shot up Deadshot's spine. _Split? _He fought to keep from squeezing the trigger. The thief might travel yards if he gave him enough time before turning the corner after him. Then he would have to aim for the spot at the base of the skull hidden behind the hood. That would be a challenge. Deadshot flashed his teeth in his smile.

"Tell you what, I'll just keep the gun out and you can run for it."

. . .

"More hospital art?" Madge spun about in the center of the room, taking in a collection of play-do sculptures, crayon drawings, and a few painting in bright, primary colors.

Lucuis waved an arm to gesture to all the displays at once. "Not this time, these are works created by several generations of students from a dozen elementary and high-schools in Gotham City. Martha Wayne wanted a display devoted to the artists of the future. She taught some of the art classes these pieces are products of."

Madge's gaze swept over pieces of fired pottery, sketches, and acrylic and water paintings. There were stick-figures with wild hair and smiley faces, a few works that almost looked like professional art, and examples of everything in between. The subject matter spanned animals, flowers, gardens, buildings, and people. Some had identifying names written under them.

The artist wandered about the room with a softer expression on her face. Memories wound through her mind like ribbons of paint through clear water. Years ago, there had been a backyard and garage a short walk from her house. The lady there gave smiles instead of slaps. She expected you to spill and stain things. She said each mistake was an opportunity to make something unexpected. You always got a piece of candy before you left.

Madge wondered if Mrs. Grant still had her drawings, paintings, and pottery around the house. After the first few times, she had decided not to take her "masterpieces" home with her. They were safer at the art-teacher's house, and more appreciated too.

. . .

Bruce ran his eyes over the gunman's form. Not just the hands, but the arms, legs and trunk of the body were held still. Only the face and lips moved to widen the smirk at times. This man was disciplined, physically strong, and enjoying himself for someone confronting a mugger. In fact, Bruce now realized he had been lured as well as entrapped. His eyes narrowed.

The other man's lips were pursing. The tip of a tongue and flash of teeth appeared, then disappeared into an even wider, close-lipped grin. The gunman shifted his weight forward. Light flashed in eyes whose pupils had widened slightly in spite of how they were facing the sun.

A wave of nausea swept up from Bruce's stomach. He just kept the revulsion from showing on his face. This man was . . . _addicted_ . . . to killing.

That alone might have convinced him. The way the man shifted from aiming at the bigger target to the smaller one, the wealth and international goods he flaunted, and the ego blaring in his word choice were further confirmation. This was Dead-shot.

A dozen countries at least had devoted years to tracking the sniper. Agents across the globe had files on the assassin laying on their desks. The criminal's face had never been recorded on footage or photographs, just police sketches. And he was staring at him.

The man was how Bruce had pictured him except more attractive. There was no tall, short, red-haired, bald, sinewy, beefy suspect, but there were suspects easily confused with a majority of the populace in a certain area. A man who did jobs in Morroco was not commonly sent to commit like crimes in Moscow.

However, the dark-brown hair, even darker eyes, and fading tan could place this man as a member of several different ethnicities. The wealth he exuded could take him anywhere on the planet. His confidence, charm, and sex-appeal could ease concerns.

A short, stutterer with blackened teeth wearing a stained shirt was first noticed, then ignored, then suspected. The tall, bright-smiled, man in a tuxedo was first noticed, then approached, and usually trusted. This gentleman was too great an opportunity to be suspected. He could afford to stand out.

Bruce blinked. He himself was not presently disguised as the vigilante who confronted criminals. He was playing an addict suffering from withdrawal and looking for cash to purchase what was needed to end the misery he was in. How frightened should that man be now?

Bruce raised his hands, leaned his shoulder against the nearby wall, and gave the gunman man a wavering grin. "Don't need that. Put it away, so I can make my feet move again. Then I'll split." He jerked his head in the direction of the way he had come.

Deadshot's smirk and pupils widened again. "Tell you what, I'll keep it out and you can run for it." Another glint flashed in the man's eyes.

The muscles in Bruce's jaw tightened. The man's advice was suspiciously sound. Moving targets were challenging. The success rate of dodging flying bullets was better statistically, than escaping an abduction once bound and caged. The farther one got and smaller a target you made yourself, the better one's chances became with a gunman . . . usually . . . not now. Deadshot never missed.

Bruce slapped his back against the brick wall and slid down it to crouch on the ground. He moved his hands to clutch his stomach. He allowed himself to relive a few of his worst memories. His body shivered. He let his head loll back. With his peripheral vision, he noted the corners of Deadshot's mouth had turned down and brows had furrowed. The gunman walked toward and then around him until he stood over his huddled form. The gun was still pointed at his head.

"Run."

Bruce shook his head and gave the gunman a weary smile. "Can't run nowhere, man."

A snarl washed over Deadshot's face. His foot flashed out and connected with Bruce's shin. Bruce had braced himself just in time and only doubled over. His jaw clenched. His nose sucked in a deep breath. A growl rolled over his head. _"Run."_

Bruce kept his gaze on the ground and shook his head again. "Can't."

A moment of silence followed. Then, the hinges of a door creaked above them. Both men froze. A gasp wafted down to their ears. The tone sounded high and immature. It was a child's voice.

Bruce's hands flashed out and grabbed the gun. He shoved it to the right. The barrel pointed past his head. His fingers wrapped around the stock and tightened.

Deadshot jerked back pulling Bruce up to his feet. Deadshot's eyes widened. He hadn't realized how tall his prey was. The assassin shoved his target into the brick wall. Pain radiated through Bruce's back. He managed to refill his lungs. Then he swept his gaze over the assassin's body.

He had wanted to only use the sloppiest hand-to hand combat in this disguise, but this was an emergency. Alfred, Leslie, and Lucius would never forgive him if such considerations got him killed. He wouldn't forgive himself if someone else got killed because of them. Right after these thoughts flashed through his mind, the gun went off.

The explosion of air and lead occurred an inch from his right ear. The sound-wave punched through his eardrum. His reflexes sought to protect the delicate membrane. His body jerked back. His head slammed against the brick wall. Pain and a flash of white light were snuffed out by darkness.

. . .

Deadshot blinked down at his target. _You've got to be kidding me. _All that for this? Almost out of habit he aimed the gun at the spot between the eyes, just above the nose. He gave the body another kick. This time there was no reaction.

The assassin stared down at the now truly slumped form. A door slammed shut somewhere above and behind him. He grimaced. Then he shook his head and lowered the colt. Even if the witness didn't call the police themselves, someone who heard the shot would.

The disappointment of another wasted bullet rankled in his stomach for a moment. He slipped his beauty back into his inside jacket pocket, turned, and began strolling back the way he'd come. This was one instance for a quick if still smooth exit.

The sniper sighed. Oh well, he still had a little excitement to look forward to. He gave some thought to forming a statement should a policeman question him on the events in the alley. He was, after all, still the near victim of a mugger. There was nothing to fear really.

He also went back to the train of thought he'd been traveling before this little distraction. He still had a plan to form, detail, and put into action. His smirk returned. Oh yes, a hunt still lay before him. That piece of fun would go as planned, and it would fully make up for this disappointing incident.

. . .

Lucius Fox led Madge and Leslie through many other rooms and displays of sculptures, sketches, paintings and crayon drawings. Along with the creations of school children and hospital patients, the American and international masters were represented. Madge was somewhat overwhelmed by the variation in the collection. There was the gripping, simplistic style of Jacob Lawrence and the aloof, yet detailed style of Jan Van Eyck among others.

While she was glad to have had this welcome change from cleaning lessons in the same house day after day, Madge was also relieved when their guide showed them back to the front entrance and bid them adieu. He literally said "adieu" Madge thought that a bit over the top.

The two women walked back to the car in silence, which Madge kept up until their vehicle was caught in a traffic snarl several streets away from the museum. She stared out the window without really seeing the vehicles, sidewalks, and buildings beyond. Perhaps her eyes were exhausted. Or maybe it was her brain. Hadn't the doc mentioned a phrase like "visual overload?" However, Madge had just enough energy left in her brain to wonder about something. She was just tired enough to want to get the question out of her head and shut it up. "So, what was the point of all this?"

"A day out for the both of us."

Madge turned and raised an eyebrow at the older woman. "Really, that's it?"

The traffic ahead moved enough for Leslie to pull forward and turn a corner. After she had done so, the doctor replied. "Well, we had also hoped it might give you a bit of inspiration."

Madge raised both her eyebrows. "Inspiration?"

"Yes."

"For what?"

"The rest of your life."

Madge rolled her eyes and looked back out the window. "What life?"

"Whatever life you choose and have given to you."

Madge made a face. Her brain was still more grinding than gliding along, but she though the wording of her driver's answer sounded familiar. She looked back at Leslie.

"I think the Bat said something like that. He get it from you?"

The corner of Leslie's mouth not visible to her passenger turned up. "Perhaps."

"What makes either of you think you know so much?"

"Experience."

"What kind of experience?"

The corner of Leslie's mouth drooped. Her eyes stared straight ahead. She seemed to see something other than the street. "The kind that proves to you that having full control of your life and having no control over your life are both deceptions."

"What's that supposed to mean to me?"

Leslie's gaze momentarily flicked to her passenger before fastening itself on the road ahead again. "You have abilities, Miss Robertson, artistic and otherwise."

Madge leaned back into the seat of the car and muttered under her breath, "Especially otherwise."

"You cannot choose what others do to or for you. You can choose what you do to and for them and to and for yourself."

Madge pursed her lips and the silence stretched on until the sedan pulled up in front of Leslie's house.

. . .

"Mister? Mister?"

Bruce's eyes blinked. He felt a knife cut through his skull. His eyes squeezed closed again and his jaw clenched. The voice stabbed through his brain again. "You awake mister?"

He blinked again. This time he managed to keep his eyes open. A small, round face, the color of chocolate came into focus. His vision cleared. Masses of black curls held in place by hair ties with princess-pink bobbles surrounded the speaker's head. Eyes not as dark as the hair, but darker than the face stared at him. "Do you need an ambulance mister?"

He sat up. The blade pierced deeper into his head, but he kept moving. "No." He began to rise to his feet, raising a hand to lean against the wall as he did so. Once his feet were beneath his standing form he realized they did not want to hold him. He leaned his whole back into the wall. He waited for the stabbing sensation to lessen. The voice came up from below him now.

"You sure? Cause my cousin Bobby is a paramedic. My uncle Josh used to drive an ambulance, but Bobby said he wanted to work inside an ambulance. He got a scholarship from the Wayne Foundation and went to Med school. Then he came back and we had a party for him. There was rainbow cake, and root-beer, and jellybeans, mostly red ones. I like red ones. I haven't gotten to see Bobby take anyone away in an ambulance yet. I saw him in his uniform once. Bessy on the first floor had a heart attack and was taken away in an ambulance, but Bobby wasn't in that ambulance. Bessy's back now. I'm glad. She sings hymns and makes sugar cookies. Did the man with the gun shoot you?"

Bruce's gaze snapped down to fasten on the six-year-old's face. His expression must have been harsher than he meant it to be. The girl shrank back from him with a frown. He softened his stare and lowered his voice. "Where is the man with the gun now?"

The girl's frown melted away in an expression of puzzlement. She shrugged. "I don't know. I think he left after I went back inside. I waited a while before looking back outside to look for you both. He was gone and you were laying down. I thought you were _dead."_

Bruce had opened his mouth to reply, but a screech echoed through the alley.

"Tasha Jennifer Lawrence! You get back in this apartment right now!"

His companion turned with a yipe, dashed down the alley, and turned the corner. Bruce's mouth twitched up in a slight smile. _Smart girl._

He leaned back against the brick wall, carefully keeping his head bowed to avoid bumping it against the bricks that had already left their mark on it. He concentrated on ignoring the pain and learning about his surroundings. Everything in the alley was still. Except for his breathing, there were no sounds but those muffled by walls and windows. No movement met his stare either. He turned his attention back to the pains screaming for it.

His right shin throbbed. There must be a bruise there. The sensation coming from it was trumped by the one still slicing through his head.

A door slammed somewhere above him and to the right. Bruce grimaced and looked up to see a window cracked open over a fire-escape. The sound had come through it, and was followed by a different kind of noise. "What have I told you about talking to strangers! Do you want to end up on the news?"

A mixture of empathy for the speaker and the spoken to added to his discomfort as well. _If it helps, Jennifer Tasha Lawrence, I'm going to get scolded too._

. . .

Madge and Leslie stepped through the door to see Alfred sitting in the nearby armchair of the living room. Alice was laying on the matching couch with her feet elevated on an armrest and pillows propping her into a sitting position. The cherub-faced backstabber grinned at them. "You're back."

Madge glared at her fellow house-guest. "What are you doing up here?"

"Alfred said since you were out and I was getting so much better, it would be a good day for him to help me make it up the stairs. He said I needed to get a bit of different scenery around me. Isn't he sweet? He's been reading to me from 'Peter Pan.'"

Madge continued to scowl at her fellow house guest, but before she could form a satisfyingly scorching response, the phone rang. Leslie was still hanging up her scarf. So, it could have been for that reason or from pure habit that Alfred picked up the receiver. "Doctor's Thomkin's residence, whom am I addressing?"

Alfred had a tremendous poker face. But Leslie saw his eyes widen and the skin of his face go taunt for half a second. Then his facial expression went back to neutral. Without taking off her coat she strode over to him. Alfred saw her coming and spoke into the mouth piece again. "Here is the good doctor now, sir."

Leslie snatched the phone from the manservant's fingers and held it up to her own ear. "This is Dr. Thomkins." A silence followed during which the doctor's own eyes flashed. "You've sustained a what?"

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. :)**

**God Bless**

**ScribeofHeroes**


	21. Chapter 21

**I neither own nor created Batman, Alfred, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Gotham City, or Deadshot. I did create Madge Robertson, Alice, Samson, and introducing Mrs. Redstone.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained. **

"And Thomas told me he could just pass down the beanie I made for him when he was a baby, and I said, 'No, Thomas Wayne, I am perfectly capable of knitting little Bruce his own.'"

Madge sat slouched in the living room's recliner. From there she glared across the coffee table at her and Alice's "babysitter." The woman in the rocking chair, clicking her knitting needles had to be one-hundred-years-old. Thick glasses made her eyes seem huge. Her conversation material made her voice sound like a dripping facet.

Alice seemed to like her. She was sitting up on the couch eyes locked upon the woman's wrinkled face as if the history of the Wayne and Thomkins clans was a daytime drama. Madge was convinced she would go insane and break those needles if she had to hear them go "clack," "clack," "clack," for three more minutes. Unfortunately, every time she got up, the 4'9" aunt of Whistler's mother asked "Do you need something, Deary?"

"No."

The lady would then respond with "Are you sure" and a list of possible things she could get or do, most of which involved some kind of drink or snack. What was she ten?

When Madge responded to this with "I'm just going up to my room," the woman said "Oooooooooh no, can't be doing that Deary, Leslie said I needed to watch you two girls."

_As if you can see anything. _Madge ground her teeth, sat back down in the chair, and grabbed her sketch-pad, which helped her stay half-sane for a while. Then …

"What are you drawing, Deary?"

Madge wondered how Dr. Thomkins and Mr. Alfred would take it if she threw one of the nearby throw-pillows at the woman. "Nothing."

"Oh, no piece of art is nothing. That's what Dear Mrs. Wayne used to say, may she rest in peace."

Madge lowered the sketch-pad and squinted at the older woman for a moment. "Do you think their son is dead?"

The old lady jumped in her seat. Then she blinked at her. The knitting needles had fallen silent. Madge's eyebrows rose. _If I'd known I could get her to do that, I would have asked earlier. _

The lady even put a hand to her heart as she answered. "No, Deary me, no! Mr. Alfred and Leslie would _never _let that happen."

. . .

"I'm going to kill you one of these days." Leslie rolled Bruce's pant-leg back down having examined his bruised shin. "Just to make sure none of those mobsters, armed robbers, or hired assassins can do it."

After picking him up at the telephone booth he'd used to call, she and Alfred had driven him to the clinic. On the way, she had tested him for memory loss. This involved him telling her what he'd been doing right before sustaining the concussion that had left him unconscious.

They had entered the clinic through a back entrance. Now, they were cloistered in the supply room. Bruce sat on the spare cot. He was being careful not to make eye-contact with Alfred.

The Englishman was leaning against the door to the hallway beyond. His warning of anyone approaching would give the three of them ample time to react. The hallway was long and shoes on its linoleum floor clicked and squeaked. Bruce knew his godfather and first teacher in the science of observation would be as happy about this incident as his godmother. His words were for both of them. "I thought someone was in danger."

The doctor rose to her feet and crossed her arms. "Someone's always in danger, Bruce, and it's usually you."

"He took me by surprise. He'll find that harder to do a second time. I know his face, voice, and motivations better than I did before."

"At a higher cost than usual. This is the same man who damaged your …" Leslie motioned with her hand over the right side of her head, before lowering her arm again with a shrug, "antennae."

Bruce remained silent. Leslie shook her head and then lifted both hands to the ceiling while lowering her gaze. "I don't know how much more of this I can take, Bruce. Bringing desperate girls to my house to drop them off for a life-change plan is one thing, but finding out my only godson is not just a target for every gun in this city, but is now the prime target of an international assassin is going to push me over the edge."

"He didn't know who I was."

"Exactly. And if he had you'd be dead now. Would Alfred and I even know where to find you then?"

Alfred coughed, but Bruce answered. "I have a tracer in my boot."

The furrow in Leslie's brow deepened. "Wonderful."

Bruce slid off the cot, looked her in the eye, and laid his hands on her shoulders. "We've already set a plan in motion."

Leslie's eyes swiveled to glance at Alfred without moving her head. "Of course. You two always have a plan now. Just like you had a plan when I didn't see you for five years. Now you include Lucius in them as well. Don't think I'm ignorant of why you only share the broadest possible outline of these plans with me. You know exactly what they will do to my blood-pressure. What you don't seem to realize is not knowing does the same thing."

Leslie's hand rose to massage her right temple. "For the sake of every last one of my nerves, Bruce. Find a saner way to help this city than threatening every killer within Gotham city limits while wearing a costume that makes you look like a giant, flying rodent." She opened her eyes and scanned his current wardrobe. "Or a man who spends his unemployment check on steroids instead of clothing."

"The cushioning in this hood Lucius and I developed performed well."

"Yes, it did. And I would appreciate it you would both stop using your body as the test subject." Leslie slammed a bag of ice down on the nearby table.

Bruce looked up and met his godmother's gaze. "I have the four people who care about me most and are experts in their fields looking out for me while I do this. Risk is always involved when attempting to improve the lot of your neighbor."

Leslie looked up at him. "Why did that have to be the line you learned from us?"

Bruce squeezed her shoulder and then let his hand drop back to his side. "You left your at-home patients with Mrs. Redstone?" Leslie nodded. Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You'd better get back there."

. . .

Madge sat up in her chair, smirking a little at Mrs. Redstone. Madge was finally having fun. "Some people think the butler offed the kid for the money."

The octogenarian's mouth pursed as her eyebrows met over her nose. "That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. My how some people talk, and about things they know nothing about!" The lady gestured at Madge with one of her knitting needles. "You listen to me young Missy, Alfred loves that boy with all his heart and has sworn to make sure he is nothing but safe all his life!"

…

"Would you care to explain in more detail, Master Bruce, how you received your concussion?"

Bruce swallowed a sigh in the back seat of Alfred's car. Along with being the manservant's personal vehicle, the brown sedan was a transport that gained no attention even when picking up a 6'2", muscled, homeless man. Even so, there was no sitting in the front seat when Alfred drove. There was also no avoiding his direct questions. Bruce slightly shifted the fresh ice-pack he held against the back of his skull. "I thought he had found another mark."

"And what 'mark' could an assassin of his reputation and pay-grade have been assigned in that neighborhood? A witness, debtor, mistress? Anyone who wished to have such a person killed could have hired a far cheaper assassin than an internationally known sniper."

"He has to be desperate to appease those who hired him to kill the Batman. He also needs to prop up his shaken confidence. And he's bored. That's why he wanted to shoot a run-of-the-mill mugger."

"All the more reason for you to have shown more caution."

"I made a mistake. It didn't kill me. I won't forget what I learned."

Alfred swallowed back all the rest he wanted to say as he gripped the steering wheel harder. "See that you don't."

"How are our plans falling together?"

"I've received word from my cousin. He'll be arriving shortly."

. . .

At the Gotham airport luggage check, a weary traveler stood with his hands in the pockets of a tweed jacket. An out-of-place voice made the man turn his head. A few yards away a gentleman with iron-gray hair, a monocle, and a cane was ordering a porter to be careful with what looked like the fifth case in a set.

What interested the witness most was the man's English accent. It perfectly matched his overall, high-class demeanor, but seemed quite out of place in mid-west America. _What could have called him all the way out here?_

The observer saw his bag come down the belt and grabbed it. He gave the Englishman another glance on his way out of Gotham airport. Then he turned back to thoughts of hailing a cab.

. . .

While Alfred was showing Madge how to fold towels properly, a smirk appeared on Madge's face. She giggled. "Is it true you turned pale when Mrs. Wayne handed you baby Bruce Wayne after his first bath?"

Alfred turned to stare at the woman. She took in the frown on his usually placid face and laughed. The butler forced his features in a haughtier expression and raised an eyebrow. "Where exactly did you hear this information, Miss Robertson?"

"If you don't want me learning such things, you shouldn't leave me and Alice with Mrs. Redstone."

Alfred turned back to folding laundry as he replied. "I assure you, we would not have had we any other options."

"What was the big emergency anyway?"

"If you are ever employed by a person with a job involving confidentiality, such as a doctor, Miss Robertson, you will need to keep yourself from asking questions about why they depart suddenly."

"Sheesh, fine. I still don't know why we needed a babysitter."

"Perhaps, we would not have thought it necessary had we been able to trust you to care for Alice rather than ending her life as you often say you should."

Madge growled and pressed down harder than usual as she smoothed out the wrinkles in the towel. "You should just let me kill her."

"Should we? She is both Dr. Thomkins patient and guest, like you."

"She's not like me. She's a dirty traitor and she'll get us all killed as soon as she can sneak out of here."

One of Alfred's eyebrows rose. "You seem to have a low opinion of our ability to take care of ourselves, Miss Robertson."

"Yeah, well you haven't seen her 'dear Sam,' or felt his fist."

There was a sudden flash in Alfred's eyes. His own motions became a bit stiff and quick for a few moments. "No. I haven't. However, learning how to properly defend your employer and their home is an under-thought-of and extremely important part of being a household employee."

Madge's eyebrows rose. "Will we cover that part of the 'curriculum' soon?"

"We will. As soon as I know you will not use such lessons upon your fellow house-guest."

Madge's lips pursed. They remained that way as she and Alfred finished folding the towels.

. . .

Dead-shot grinned as he put the unfamiliar weapon together. Not his usual tool of the trade, but a necessary one for this job. Like this new gun, the pieces of his plan were clicking into place. All he had to do was get her, and then he could get him.

After tomorrow night. It would all be over. Then there would be no more reason to hide, and his reputation would be firmer than ever. Deadshot lifted the weapon with both hands and showed his teeth in a smile while staring down the scope.

. . .

Leslie Thomkins sighed as she strode toward her dark-green sedan. It had been another long day, telling an irate woman not to smoke while she was pregnant, calming down a screaming five-year-old with a fever, telling a man who lived on the street he might have cancer. She paused to unlock the driver-side door and felt a sting at the back of her neck.

The doctor's eyes widened. She knew that sensation. Her hand flew to the spot. Her fingertips touched a long, cold, smooth surface. Leslie gripped the door handle and pulled. Her door opened. She slid inside and sat down just as her legs started shaking. Her vision was blurry, but after pulling it out she recognized the object in her hand as the light inside her car shone on it. Then her surroundings went black as her forehead hit the steering wheel.

. . .

Leslie came back to consciousness with a dry mouth. Her thoughts turned to the glass of ice-water she always set on the coaster with an Iris stenciled into it. She turned over in the direction of her bedside dresser. She'd have to be careful not to accidentally pick up the hand-held radio Bruce contacted her on while out on his insane escapades.

Leslie tried to reach for her beverage. Something was holding her hands together and behind her back. Her eyes flew open. She tried to move her feet. Her ankles were bound together as well. The sound of laughter made her turn back over.

A man was sitting at her bedside in an unfamiliar room. He looked about Bruce's age, maybe a little older. His straight nose, high-cheekbones, and dimpled chin made his appear handsome, but the way his dark brown eyes stared at her was … predatory.

By the impersonal, but luxuriousness of the carpet, furniture, and wallpaper surrounding her, Leslie assumed they were in a hotel room. If she had been a lot younger, Leslie would have thought she knew what this was about. Considering her age, the fact she looked it, and how her clothes were all still on as she had put them on this morning, Leslie didn't understand the situation. She managed to sit up and pin the man with a ten-second, unblinking stare. "Should I ask about your motive?"

The man leaned forward, grin still I place. "Well, well, well … I knew you were supposed to be a modern saint. I didn't know you'd be so … cold and dull."

"Now that you know, perhaps you will untie me."

The man's grin widened as he shook his head and leaned back in his chair. "No, no, no … It's a disappointment, but not relevant to my plans for you."

Leslie's eyes narrowed as a suspicion entered her mind. "How much do you want, because I assure you it isn't worth it."

The man laughed again, showing straight, white teeth. "You and your friends aren't going to be who pays me. Besides, this isn't really about money, but reputation."

Leslie's brows drew together. "How so?"

The man leaned forward. Lights shown in his eyes as his gaze grew intense. "Guess this might hurt your pride, but you're just bait, Doctor Leslie Thomkins of Gotham Mercy Clinic and General Hospital. I have a certain night-time critter I want to shoot and you should draw him out nicely."

Leslie's eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open. She wondered what her abductor would do if she had a heart-attack. Perhaps it would save Bruce's life.

**Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They help me know what I did right so I can do more of it, and what I did wrong so I can fix it, or at least do less of it the next time around. **

**God Bless**

**ScribeofHeroes**


	22. Chapter 22

**I neither own nor created Batman, Alfred, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Gotham City, or Deadshot. I did create Madge Robertson, and Alice.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

Alfred wavered when the phone rang upstairs. He disliked leaving the Batcave while Master Bruce was out on the hunt. He needed to remain near the contact center in case the Batman required assistance. However, if someone was phoning this late, it likely was an emergency.

The manservant took the elevator to the secret door into the library. The fact the phone had kept ringing further convinced him there was a crisis. Alfred strode past the sliding bookcase and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Wayne Manor."

"Teach, it's Madge."

Alfred's already straight form stiffened. Why would his student be calling? If anything was amiss at that address surely Leslie would call about it. Unless Miss Alice was having a health emergency. The Englishman's eyes cleared as he raised his chin in determination. "Yes, Miss Robertson, what might I do for you?"

"Uh, the Doc should be home by now, right? She didn't have a late date or something, did she?"

Alfred's chin went back down as a slight furrow appeared between his eyebrows. "Not that I am aware of. She has not arrived there, yet?"

"Ah, no. Should I call the police or something?"

"Not yet. I will look into it, and be right over."

Alfred hung up the phone and took the hidden elevator back down to the Batcave.

. . .

"Batman."

Atop a building in the South Side district across from a warehouse where a shipment of drugs was being brought in to be divided up among various dealers, Batman reached for the earpiece in his cowl. He tapped it. There was a pause as the device sent the message he was listening. Then Alfred's voice sounded in his ear again. "A mutual friend of ours has not returned home from the clinic."

Batman's eyes widened.

. . .

He stood before the car. The driver door had been left open. On the seat, lay a tranquilizer dart and two, metal cylinders. Batman reached in and picked one up with a gloved hand. He turned to let the glow of the nearby street-light shine on the object. It was an empty chamber from a high-powered sniper rifle. He rolled it between his fingertips, and then stopped. A script of two letters in swooping cursive were etched into one side. "DS."

Batman's gloved hand wrapped around the gun-shell and clenched into a fist.

. . .

The darkness was his friend, the shadows, stay in the shadows. That was what his father had said. What if ..? What if … what if the man with the gun was still around, somewhere, waiting around the next corner, standing across the street. Bruce froze, closed his eyes, gulped in a deep breath, and listened.

There was no sound of footsteps. There was no sound of cars. He released his held breath. Now there was only the sound of his own gasps.

Bruce shivered. The night was seeping through his evening jacket to chill his sweating skin. He took another breath and glanced out around the corner. He stared at the familiar porch. Its light beckoned him reflecting off the white door and flashing off its ornate window.

Bruce clenched his jaw. Dad had said to get help. He crouched and gathered himself.

Bruce sprang forward. His feet sprinted off the asphalt and onto the sidewalk, across the concrete to jump the curb and land on asphalt again, across the street to jump up onto concrete once more, across the concrete to throw the gate open and race up the stone path to the stairs, up the stairs, onto the porch, across the porch, and to the white door with its ornate window. He pounded his fists on it. "Aunt Leslie! Aunt Leslie! Aunt Leslie! Aunt ..!"

. . .

"_Leslie ..."_

The assassin had her. He had taken her as bait. Did that mean he knew?

Then the Batman noticed the cartridge was slightly heavier than it should have been. He turned it over so the light would shine into the chamber, only it didn't. It just lit up something white filling it.

The desire to know what it was burned in his stomach, but he resisted. Instead, Batman lifted his free hand to his cowl and activated the receiver in the cowl. Then he lifted the small radio to his mouth. He almost never used it, but this was an exceptional situation.

"Those plans need to be made ready now. Get our associate to the cave. Our target has Dr. Leslie Thomkins."

. . .

Leslie closed her mouth and raised an eyebrow at her abductor "Bait? For a night critter? I would think cheese draws rats better than doctors."

Deadshot smirked without looking up from the silver pistol he was cleaning. "I'm not hunting rats. I'm hunting The Bat. I figure a fellow saint should draw out a vigilante as well as a damsel in distress."

Leslie kept a straight face that made Alfred, his cousin, and Lucius say she should play poker. She wriggled her wrists in their bonds. They didn't even think about giving. Instead they only dug further into her skin with every movement. She kept the pain out of her voice. "You want to shoot a vigilante?"

"Now you have it right."

"What happens to me if he's only a myth?"

"He's not."

"What if I fail to draw him out?"

"Well," Deadshot pulled the baking-soda white handkerchief away from the piece of engraved silver. He lifted the latter to shine in the light of the lamp. He smiled at his work. "I guess then I'll have to plug you, dump your body on the beach, and try again."

. . .

Leslie jumped. She had just been lying on her sofa reading a book she would never be able to finish. She set it aside with a thump and strode to the shuddering door.

_Why didn't Thomas or Martha just ring the doorbell or even have Bruce do it? Was the doorbell broken? If so, couldn't they simply knock instead of beating it so the wood would crack?_

Leslie froze. Now she could hear the high-pitched voice on the other side. "Aunt Leslie! Aunt Leslie! Aunt Leslie!"

She stepped forward and flung the door open. Bruce stood trembling on the doormat. His raised fists lowered to his sides. Leslie's eyes were drawn to the white dress shirt under his black jacket. Her eyes widened. "Bruce!"

She knelt down. Her hands went to the blood-stained buttons and began undoing them to see the wound she assumed was beneath. She opened her mouth, but Bruce spoke first. His words froze her.

"They've been shot, Aunt Leslie! Mom and Dad were shot!"

. . .

Leslie closed her eyes as she sat on the bed still facing her kidnapper cleaning his engraved, pear-handled pistol. She prayed without moving her lips or making a sound.

_Oh Lord, please don't make him lose me too. Or I him._

. . .

Batman lifted the shell to the light over the metal table. He raised the pliers to its opening. The tweezers gripped the white filling. He pulled it free. Out came a tightly rolled piece of paper.

Bruce unfolded it on the table with the same tweezers. Alfred's frozen-hard gaze was locked on the sheet also. Another man stood leaning against a nearby file cabinet. He watched with his arms crossed over his chest.

When unfolded, the paper proved to be a map of a certain area of Gotham with an "X" and a time written in red ink on it. Bruce straightened from his crouch over the table. His hard, flat voice echoed off the cavern walls. "Carnival Pier."

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	23. Chapter 23

**I did not create nor do I own Bruce Wayne/Batman, Deadshot, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, or Gotham City.**

**This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.**

Madge watched the old lady cross the street and enter the house right beyond it. The babysitter had looked after her and Alice again today. She'd weathered the lady's chatter even less graciously than before. She'd stayed so quiet and her face had been so red, their babysitter had asked if she was "feeling well."

Yet, it had been Alice who'd voiced her thoughts for her. "Where is Doctor Thomkins today?"

The old lady had shrugged. "Alfred said he would look into where she's got to this time. She and Dr. Wayne would both pull disappearances now and then. It seems to run in their family. Bruce has been gone for years you know. They usually show up again. Don't worry, Deary."

Madge's teeth ground as that reply echoed in her mind. She turned and went to the kitchen. She yanked open the drawer right of the sink. What she wanted was right there on top.

Madge strode back out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs. She opened the door of the second guest room. Alice looked up from her book. "Peter Pan" was being read again. As her gaze focused on the other woman's face, Alice's voice wavered. "Madge?"

Madge stepped up to the bedside and held the kitchen knife so the point hovered about a foot from her fellow guest's chest. "What did you do?"

Alice shrank back. "Madge?"

"Don't say my name again! You have a phone in this room! Who did you call? Who did you tell where we were and who we live with now? Samson?"

Alice shook her head as she scooted to the opposite side of the bed and away from the knife. "Nnnnnnnoooooo! I didn't tell anyone!"

Madge spat at her. "Don't give me that! You always tell on us! What did you do?!"

Alice's mouth opened in a wail. "Nothing!" Her face was red now too. Her eyes were welling up.

Madge ground her teeth. "Don't try to look innocent. You've never been innocent. What did you do! She and the Bat were the only ones who looked out for us and you squealed on them!"

Madge turned the knife over in her hands, placed a knee up on the bed, and crouched over Alice. The younger woman pressed back down into the mattress and held up her hands in front of her face. "Heeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllpppppp!"

Madge froze. She stared at the other woman. The hand holding the knife began to shake. Then she turned and left the room slamming the door shut behind her.

Madge pressed her back against the wood and sank down while sobbing. She hadn't cried since she was ten. Had she really cared about anyone since then? _Doc, where are you?_

. . .

At around 9:45 pm, Leslie found herself being guided through a crowd at Carnival Pier. She felt neither fresh nor festive since she still wore the clothing she had been kidnapped in. Thus, she was uncomfortable in the social and celebratory atmosphere.

What discomfited her still more was the gun. Deadshot was hiding it well in the pocket of his trench-coat. "He" was giving a carefree, mischievous grin to whoever met his gaze, especially if they were young, female, and attractive.

Surrounding them were the sounds of a carnival. Squeals of excitement rose and fell with the mechanical whirrs and whooshes of the rides. Sales pitches for foods and game booths were shouted at them. Balls hit glass bottles with clunks. Plastic rifles popped . . . Leslie turned her head at this last sound.

When he was … seven … (if she recalled correctly), Bruce had played that game. In fact, he had played for fifteen minutes straight until he'd hit the center of every target. He'd spent twenty dollars of his father's money to learn to do so.

Thomas had shelled it out without protest. His grin of pride and amusement had contrasted sharply with Bruce's scrunched up eyes gazing down the plastic barrel. That was the last time Leslie remembered her godson touching anything resembling a gun.

Something hard beneath a cloth covering pressed into the small of her back. A hot breath wafted over the side of her head, yet the voice was smooth and tone light. "Keep moving, Doctor Mercy."

Leslie rolled her eyes. He kept using that ridiculous term the Gotham Gazette had labeled her with

several years back. She heaved out a breath and clunked along the planks of the pier again. At least the area still felt familiar.

She, Thomas, or Lucius would bring Bruce here while Martha entertained certain guests at the manor. The small eavesdropper had tended to offend guests with no children, or senses of humor. There had even been rare occasions Martha had simply wanted a quiet and responsibility-less night at home.

The summer after he turned eight, Bruce hadn't asked to be taken to Carnival Pier. She and Lucius had taken him anyway. Once there, he hadn't asked to do anything. He'd only listlessly done whatever they suggested, except for the shooting game. He had shaken his head when Lucius suggested that, turned, and began moving away toward the Ferris Wheel. That was the closest thing he had come to taking initiative all that night.

After they had taken him home, Leslie had passed near Bruce's room and heard Alfred chiding him for not taking the opportunity to hone his sleuthing skills. Bruce and Alfred had gone to Carnival Pier by themselves a few times after that. She had not accompanied them. Leslie had wanted nothing to do with encouraging their folly. But she had enjoyed that last Ferris Wheel ride with Bruce all those years ago. Leslie looked up and realized the Ferris Wheel was where her captor was guiding her.

. . .

Bruce pursed his lips and cast his gaze over the scene from his perch. A voice came from behind his left shoulder. "Where did you say she'd be again?"

Bruce didn't glance at the speaker as he answered. "The note said she'd be at 12 o'clock, at 10 o'clock."

The other man's eye riveted on the Ferris Wheel. Along the circumference hung twelve baskets. "Ah. Wouldn't that be almost too easy a shot for him from here?"

"Look for something that will make it difficult."

. . .

"This is where I leave you, Doctor Mercy."

Leslie whirled around. Her captor had bribed her and himself to the point in line where she now stood. The grinning man was already stepping away from her. The grin became a smirk under her stare. "Just use the ticket I gave you go right to the top. I've got my own ride to catch."

Leslie's own mouth turned down into a frown. The man paused and patted his heavy pocket. "Just remember what will happen if you don't." He lifted the same hand with its index and third finger together and his other fingers drawn in. His thumb lifted to form a right angle. He pointed the gesture at a child on the shoulders of his father. The soft sound her "escort" made sent the pimples of Leslie's skin rising. _"Bang . . ."_

Then he turned and walked away. She glared after him, but stood in place. Not many men could shoot someone in a crowd and walk away. With this man, she didn't want to take the chance. As Dr. Thomkins watched her kidnapper leave, she wondered if she could really continue choosing a crowd of strangers over her god-son.

. . .

"There she is."

Bruce pointed his binoculars in the direction the other man had pointed his scope. Yes, there was his godmother. She was glaring at a man over six-feet tall, with light blond hair walking away from her. Bruce dropped another set of magnifying lenses into the binoculars. The hair of the man holding Leslie's interest was brown at its roots.

The Batman lowered his binoculars while keeping his gaze upon the man. Where was the target walking to? Bruce looked toward the tallest ride in that direction. His companion's English accent grew thicker as he noticed the same sight. "Oi! Even this bloke can't be that balmy!"

"He can."

. . .

Deadshot turned his grinning face upwards at the sound of screams. They were not shrieks of startled horror like those surrounding his victims gave when they dropped. He was never close enough to hear them. No, these shrieks were from those enjoying having their adrenaline spiked. He relished the biological jolt himself. He just preferred to get high another way.

The man got into line and put both hands into his pockets. One wrapped around a few paper tickets. The other wrapped around a handgun with an extra long barrel.

He glanced over his shoulder. His eyes fixed upon the metal basket hanging from the top of the Ferris Wheel. The distant wouldn't have been impressive with a rifle, but with a pistol. Only he could do it.

Deadshot looked back to his own ride. The timing though, would be the real trick. The Bat better be on time. The vigilante had had nearly twenty-four hours to notice the bait was missing and find his clue.

The police had found the car. As he'd watched, Deadshot had noticed none of the men in uniforms had bagged darts. The assassin didn't let himself consider someone other than his quarry might have found and confiscated the breadcrumbs he'd left for The Bat.

As the Ferris Wheel turned the "Gotham Drop" would rise. At the top, he would have five seconds. If the vigilante didn't show, the Saint from Crime-Alley clinic would do almost as well. Dropping her there, from up there would prove his reputation and resolve real. Even Gotham City must have a supply of decent citizens to draw from. The Bat would show sometime.

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